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In thy woman-hearted pages,
How much sympathy appears
With the sorrowful and real,
All that only speaks in tears!
Have those large bright eyes been darkened
By the shadows from below?
Rather would I deem thee dreaming
Over grief thou canst not know.
But thou hast the poet’s birthright,
In a heart too warm and true.
Wreath thy dark hair with the laurel—
On it rests the midnight dew!
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