XVII

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XVII

But from the interview what flowed?

Alas! It is not hard to guess.

The insensate fire of love still glowed

Nor discontinued to distress

A spirit which for sorrow yearned.

Tattiana more than ever burned

With hopeless passion: from her bed

Sweet slumber winged its way and fled.

Her health, life’s sweetness and its bloom,

Her smile and maidenly repose,

All vanished as an echo goes.

Across her youth a shade had come,

As when the tempest’s veil is drawn

Across the smiling face of dawn.