Henrik Ibsen, Gone

The last, late guest
To the gate we followed;
Goodbye – and the rest
The night-wind swallowed.
House, garden, street,
Lay tenfold gloomy,
Where accents sweet
Had made music to me.
It was but a feast
With the dark coming on;
She was but a guest –
And now, she is gone.

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Henrik Ibsen, Gone

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