  Hot with the ardour of the sun, Whose burning lips had slain the noon, The golden pallor of the moon Was but an added fire, o'ercome With memories she swooned away, While I, grown weary with the day Sought on my balcony to find Some solace for my groping mind, But lo! the awful night was fraught With anguish, from the noontide caught; The dark was breathless, and the skies Filled with a thousand prying eyes But scoffed to see my soul's despair, |
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