XXXVII

'T is dark: quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet:

      'This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline!'

      'T is dark: the iced gusts still rave and beat:

      'No dream, alas! alas! and woe is mine!

      Porphyro will leave me here to fade and pine.—

      Cruel! what traitor could thee hither bring?

      I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine,

      Though thou forsakest a deceived thing;—

A dove forlorn and lost with sick unpruned wing.'