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1894.]
To Beatrice.
127
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TO BEATRICE.
Right royally her womanhood she wears
In golden and unyielding purpose bent
To grow to her soul's stature. She was meant
For great conclusions, and her earlier years
Were moulded with long silence and with tears,
So lofty that her look of scorn is sent
Through each mean impulse in small hearts, content
With lesser comfort such as never bears
The forging iron of a master hand.
She stands alone. No spirit doth command
With life's one talisman her longing heart;
And comfortless, she cannot understand
The royal state, nor why her path doth start
From lesser heights and lowlier souls apart.
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