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Till he wept with the grief that can do no more, And thought he had dreamt the dream before. From bursting heart the weeping flowed on; And lo! beside him the ghost-girl shone; Shone like the light on a harbour's breast, Over the sea of his dream's unrest;
A warrior he was, not often wept he, But this night he wept full bitterly. He woke beside him the ghost-girl shone Out of the dark: 'twas the eve of St. John. He had dreamed a dream of a still, dark wood, Where the maiden of old beside him stood; But a mist came down, and caught her away, And he sought her in vain through the pathless day,
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