On Carpaccio's Picture: The Dream of St. Ursula
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wept, clean, and still, across the polished floorFrom some unshuttered casement, hid from sight,The level sunshine slants, its greater lightQuenching the little lamp which pallid, poor,Flickering, unreplenished, at the doorHas striven against darkness the long night.Dawn fills the room, and penetrating, bright,The silent sunbeams through the window pour.And she lies sleeping, ignorant of Fate,Enmeshed in listless dreams, her soul not yetRipened to bear the purport of this day.The morning breeze scarce stirs the coverlet,A shadow falls across the sunlight; wait!A lark is singing as he flies away.
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