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Poem	She bore it till the simple veins Traced azure on her hand -- Til pleading, round her quiet eyes The purple Crayons stand. Till Daffodils had come and gone I cannot tell the sum, And then she ceased to bear it -- And with the Saints sat down. No more her patient figure At twilight soft to meet -- No more her timid bonnet Upon the village street -- But Crowns instead, and Courtiers -- And in the midst so fair, Whose but her shy -- immortal face Of whom we're whispering here?
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