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The Eve of St. Agnes, XXIII, [Out went the taper as she hurried in]

by John Keats, 1820

Out went the taper as she hurried in;
    Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died:
    She closed the door, she panted, all akin
    To spirits of the air, and visions wide:
    No utter'd syllable, or, woe betide!
    But to her heart, her heart was voluble,
    Paining with eloquence her balmy side;
    As though a tongueless nightingale should swell
Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, in her dell.

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