| THE rain set early in to-night, |
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| The sullen wind was soon awake, |
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| It tore the elm-tops down for spite, |
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| And did its worst to vex the lake: |
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| I listen'd with heart fit to break. |
5 |
| When glided in Porphyria; straight |
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| She shut the cold out and the storm, |
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| And kneel'd and made the cheerless grate |
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| Blaze up, and all the cottage warm; |
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| Which done, she rose, and from her form |
10 |
| Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl, |
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| And laid her soil'd gloves by, untied |
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| Her hat and let the damp hair fall, |
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| And, last, she sat down by my side |
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| And call'd me. When no voice replied, |
15 |
| She put my arm about her waist, |
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| And made her smooth white shoulder bare, |
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| And all her yellow hair displaced, |
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| And, stooping, made my cheek lie there, |
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| And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair, |
20 |
| Murmuring how she loved me—she |
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| Too weak, for all her heart's endeavour, |
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| To set its struggling passion free |
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| From pride, and vainer ties dissever, |
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| And give herself to me for ever. |
25 |
| But passion sometimes would prevail, |
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| Nor could to-night's gay feast restrain |
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| A sudden thought of one so pale |
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| For love of her, and all in vain: |
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| So, she was come through wind and rain. |
30 |
| Be sure I look'd up at her eyes |
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| Happy and proud; at last I knew |
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| Porphyria worshipp'd me; surprise |
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| Made my heart swell, and still it grew |
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| While I debated what to do. |
35 |
| That moment she was mine, mine, fair, |
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| Perfectly pure and good: I found |
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| A thing to do, and all her hair |
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| In one long yellow string I wound |
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| Three times her little throat around, |
40 |
| And strangled her. No pain felt she; |
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| I am quite sure she felt no pain. |
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| As a shut bud that holds a bee, |
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| I warily oped her lids: again |
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| Laugh'd the blue eyes without a stain. |
45 |
| And I untighten'd next the tress |
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| About her neck; her cheek once more |
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| Blush'd bright beneath my burning kiss: |
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| I propp'd her head up as before, |
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| Only, this time my shoulder bore |
50 |
| Her head, which droops upon it still: |
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| The smiling rosy little head, |
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| So glad it has its utmost will, |
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| That all it scorn'd at once is fled, |
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| And I, its love, am gain'd instead! |
55 |
| Porphyria's love: she guess'd not how |
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| Her darling one wish would be heard. |
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| And thus we sit together now, |
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| And all night long we have not stirr'd, |
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| And yet God has not said a word! |
60 |