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POEMS BY CLARA A. MERRILL
—As the rose hails the dew of the evening When parched by the heat of the sun; —As the hand, that with toil has grown weary Welcomes rest when the day's work is done—
—So thus, for your picture a welcome Most fervent will e'er be secure But my poem—Ah! what of my poem? —There can scarcely be aught to endure. Tho' your picture's like beauteous landscape That by Artists will ever be praised; —Yet my poem will be like a cipher That some rude, reckless hand has erased!
