  Liege lady! believe me, All night, from my pillow I heard, but to grieve me, The plash of the willow; The rain on the towers, The winds without number, In the gloom of the hours, And denial of slumber: And nigh to the dawning,— My heart aching blindly, Unresting and mourning That you were unkindly— What did I ostensibly, Ah, what under heaven, Liege lady! but sensibly Doze till eleven? |
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