XXXVII.

'Tis dark: quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet: "This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline!" 'Tis dark: the iced gusts still rave and beat: "No dream, alas! alas! and woe is mine! Porphyro will leave me here to fade and pine.-- Cruel! what traitor could thee hither bring? 330 I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine Though thou forsakest a deceived thing;-- A dove forlorn and lost with sick unpruned wing."