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i8o THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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There within our quiet garden
Fell that last of happy eves Through the gold of the laburnum
And the thickening lilac leaves; There the winter winds are now sighing around each leafless bough.
Haunted house ! and do they whisper That the wintry moon-rays show, Glancing through thy halls, a ghastly Phantasy of long ago, And thy windows shining bright with a spectral gala light?
Vain and idle superstition !
Thee no spectral rays illume; But one shape of gentlest beauty
I can conjure from thy gloom, In whose sad eyes I can see ghosts that haunt my memory. |
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