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The moonlight makes a pattern on the sill
Of light and shadow, alternating bands,
Like inky ocean waves on silver sands—
And on the quilt, each fold a rumpled hill
Down which the moonlight flows in rivers still,
And at the window, lonely still she stands,
The curtain-cord entwined in her white hands,
And silently, with tears her wide eyes fill.
She tries in vain to keep the tears at bay;
Her eyes with hopeless love and anguish burn.
Of all the world, but one can ease her pain;
Where is he now, the man who rode away?
He kissed her brow and promised to return—
She fears—she knows—he will not come again.


My attempt at an Italian or Petrarchan sonnet. The rhyme scheme is different from the Shakespearean.



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