XXI

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XXI

But borne in spirit far away

Tattiana gazes on the moon,

And starting suddenly doth say:

“Nurse, leave me. I would be alone.

Pen, paper bring: the table too

Draw near. I soon to sleep shall go⁠—

Good-night.” Behold! she is alone!

’Tis silent⁠—on her shines the moon⁠—

Upon her elbow she reclines,

And Eugene ever in her soul

Indites an inconsiderate scroll

Wherein love innocently pines.

Now it is ready to be sent⁠—

For whom, Tattiana, is it meant?