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Updated: May 6, 2025
Twice, too, in this garden, the pageant of spring and summer and sunset-hued autumn had passed, the birds had flown away again and winter snows had covered all with their whiteness and their silence. And still the garden's true-lover, the poet, The Dreamer, was a wanderer, where? Oh, beautiful "Ligeia," was it not your voice that now and again whispered in the tree-tops and among the flowers?
LECTOR. But, my friend, this is to feel too much; it is morbid. SCRIPTOR. Morbid! How can one really feel and not be morbid? If one be morbid, one can still be brave. LECTOR. But surely, true-lover as you are, it would be a joy to you to think that this terrible parting of death will not be final. We cannot love so well without hoping that we may meet our loved ones somewhere after death.
They had a marriage-scene. Two little Faeries stood up together, and the one that was to marry them took a hair from each of their heads, and fastening the ends together, made a long string; with this he tied them together in a true-lover knot; for such is the way the Faeries do when they are married. This was for ty; then came the whole word.
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