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I MARKED you once this winter at a ball,
Where glaring splendors mocked the cheerless night, -
I marked you, say I, as in glimmering white
You sat upon the stairway, and a tall
Dark figure leaned above you. Fair and small
Your pale hands drooped, and from your idle sight
Faded the whirling dance; your ringlets bright
Waved in the swaying breeze, that dense with all
The balmy breath of music as it dies
Mingled with roses lulled you, gay before.
And as he murmured low, his pleading eyes
Into your soul a dreamy quiet bore,
Till all at once you woke in sweet surprise,
With exclamation quick, - "Not been to Pinafore?"
W. T.
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