XVIII

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XVIII

Long in this fashionable cell

Tattiana as enchanted stood;

But it grew late; cold blew the gale;

Dark was the valley and the wood

Slept o’er the river misty grown.

Behind the mountain sank the moon.

Long, long the hour had past when home

Our youthful wanderer should roam.

She hid the trouble of her breast,

Heaved an involuntary sigh

And turned to leave immediately,

But first permission did request

Thither in future to proceed

That certain volumes she might read.