XXXV

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XXXV

The break of day she doth not see,

But sits in bed with air depressed,

Nor on the letter yet hath she

The image of her seal impressed.

But gray Phillippevna the door

Opened with care, and entering bore

A cup of tea upon a tray.

“ ’Tis time, my child, arise, I pray!

My beauty, thou art ready too.

My morning birdie, yesternight

I was half silly with affright.

But praised be God! in health art thou!

The pains of night have wholly fled,

Thy cheek is as a poppy red!”