And there came from her quivering lip no word,
Only the fall of her lute was heard,
As it dropp’d from her hand at her rival’s feet,
Into fragments, whose dying thrill was sweet!
What more remaineth? Her day was done;
Her fate and the Broken Lute’s were one!
The light, the vision, the gift of power,
Pass’d from her soul in that mortal hour,
Like the rich sound from the shatter’d string
Whence the gush of sweetness no more might spring!