'Tis dark: quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet: 325 "This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline!" 'Tis dark: the icèd 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? I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine, Though thou forsakest a deceivèd thing; · A dove forlorn and lost with sick unprunèd wing."

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