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And fans him with her moonlight wings, and cries,

      'Our love, our hope, our sorrow, is not dead;

      See, on the silken fringe of his faint eyes,

      Like dew upon a sleeping flower, there lies

      A tear some Dream has loosened from his brain.'

      Lost Angel of a ruined Paradise!

      She knew not 'twas her own; as with no stain

She faded, like a cloud which had outwept its rain.