Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/334

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Time was, indeed, when she would hang
Enamoured on my theme;
But ah, that happy time hath fled,
And vanished like a dream.

Peace, thou proud heart, and prate no more,
Thy sun of joy hath set,
And dark and starless is the sky
The troubadour has met.