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Healed of My Hurt

 Children of my happier prime,
When One yet lived with me, and threw
Her rainbow over life and time,
Even Hope, my bride, and mother to you!
O, nurtured in sweet pastoral air,
And fed on flowers and light and dew
Of morning meadows -spare, ah, spare
Reproach; spare, and upbraid me not
That, yielding scarce to reckless mood,
But jealous of your future lot,
I sealed you in a fate subdued.
Have I not saved you from the dread Theft, and ignoring which need be The triumph of the insincere Unanimous Mediocrity? Rest, therefore, free from all despite, Snugged in the arms of comfortable night.

by Herman Melville
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