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PASTA.
I see thee, with thy night-black hair
Flung wild and loose in thy despair;
Upraised are thy imploring hands
To heaven, which yet thy prayer withstands;
And in thy deep and flashing eye
Is passion’s utter agony.
A Grecian statue dost thou seem,
Wrought up in some tumultuous dream;
While in the music of thy tone
Is every thrill to sorrow known.
Queen art thou—and still must be queen,
While one heart keeps thy haunting scene.
