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Where's the hearth, however low,
Knoweth not this guest?
When the sunset embers glow,
Enters she with Rest.
In the empty place she sits,
Lets her eyelids fall;
Through the dusk a shadow flits,
Deepening over all.


One that stealeth from her place
Every heart hath stirred;
None that looketh in her face
Asketh her a word.
Hands that seem a cloudy waft
Clasping on her knees;
Eyes with wonted musing soft--
What is it she sees?


High in many a fairy spire
Leaps the mimic flame;
Golden palaces afire
Die the death of fame.
Faces glimmer, hands are swept--
Turned to ashes cold;
In her eyes are tears unwept.
Tears that were of old.


Girt with memories sublime
Looks her crownless brow;
Was she princess in her time?
Who can answer now?
Of the old immortals she,
Trailing glory yet;
Nothing but the past can be
Ever for regret.


All her breath is sighing faint
As from wind-harp drawn
All her song is tender plaint
For a world that's gone.
Ages past our age of strife
She remembereth;
Youn as sorrow, young as life,
Born of every death.


Her in lonely walks you meet,
Woody hills among,
Trying echoes strangely sweet
To a siren-song.
Soon with utter longing fain
Down you choose to lie,
For the rapture or the pain
Closeth always, Die!


One highway beyond the east
She hath often found,
And with whitest moonlight fleeced,
Walked unearthly ground.
A dim land outlying far
Every track of men,
Sown with many a mystic star,
Is the Might Have Been.


Lonely by the lapsing waves
Sits she on the shore,
And her look one country craves,
Named the Nevermore.
In the fading purple haze
Of a sun long set,
Last of all the goddesses
Lingereth Regret.