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44-0 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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" Wail for Aillin the Fair !
Wail for him her feet Were swift to meet on the lonely strand
Where they shall never meet! |
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" Swift were her feet on the way, Till me she met on her track,
A hound of swiftness, a shape of fear, A tiding to turn her back. |
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" Swift are the lover's feet,
But swifter our malice flies !
I told her : Bala is dead; and dead In her sunny house she lies." |
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He scowled on Bala, and rose
A wraith of the mist, and fled
Like a wind-rent cloud ; and suddenly Bala With a great cry fell dead. |
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Mourn for all lovers true,
Mourn for all beautiful things, Vanished, faded away, forgotten
With dead forgotten Springs !
So moans the sea on the strand, Moans over shingle and shell.
Gray sea, of many and many a sorrow Thy sad waves tell. |
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