VIII.
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otionless she sate.Her hair had fallen by its weightOn each side of her smile and layVery blackly on the armWhere the baby nestled warm,Pale as baby carved in stoneSeen by glimpses of the moonUp a dark cathedral aisle:But, through the storm, no moonbeam fellUpon the child of Isobel--Perhaps you saw it by the rayAlone of her still smile.
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