Upon a vine clad terrace, in one deep niche That fallen stones had made within the wall, Sat Mary; her head, heavy with hours of leaden thought, Drooped wearily upon her hand; her dreamy eyes Misty with unshed tears gazed out beyond The blue horizon of the distant hills In dull despair. The Master had not come! Four days, four nights, and yet he had not come! Oh, she had watched it seemed a thousand years That pathway from Judæa! Her straining sight Reeled inward, dazed and dizzy as she gazed, And her acute ears caught, between the sounds Of wailing and of mourning in the house, The falling of a pebble with sharp pain.
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