A fantasy novel by George MacDonald

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Played with the ghost-child all the night, And the mother was free till the morniug light,
And sped through the dawning night, to stay With Aglovaile till the break of day.
And their love was a rapture, lone and high, And dumb as the moon in the topmost sky.
One night Sir Aglovaile, weary, slept, And dreamed a dream wherein he wept.
A warrior he was, not often wept he, But this night he wept full bitterly.
He woke—beside him the ghost-girl shone Out of the dark : 'twas the eve of St. John.
He had dreamed a dream of a still, dark wood, Where the maiden of old beside him stood ;
But a mist came down, and caught her away,
And he sought her in vain through the pathless day,
Till he wept with the grief that can do no more, And thought he had dreamt the dream before.
From bursting heart the weeping flowed on ; And lo! beside him the ghost-girl shone ;
Shone like the light on a harbour's breast, Over the sea of his dream's unrest;
Shone like the wondrous, nameless boon, That the heart seeks ever, night or noon:
Warnings forgotten, when needed most, He clasped to his bosom the radiant ghost.
She wailed aloud, and faded, and sank. With upturnM white face, cold and blank,
In his arms lay the corpse of the maiden pale, And she came no more to Sir Aglovaile.
Only a voice, when winds were wild, Sobbed and wailed like a chidden child.
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