XXX

She weeps alone for pleasures not to be;

      Sorely she wept until the night came on,

And then, instead of love, O misery!

      She brooded o'er the luxury alone:

His image in the dusk she seem'd to see,

      And to the silence made a gentle moan,

Spreading her perfect arms upon the air,

And on her couch low murmuring, 'Where? O where?'