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MAUD.
77
Let him name it who can,
The beauty would be the same.
3.
The tiny cell is forlorn,
Void of the little living will
That made it stir on the shore.
Did he stand at the diamond door
Of his house in a rainbow frill?
Did he push, when he was uncurl'd,
A golden foot or a fairy horn
Thro' his dim water-world?
4.
Slight, to be crush'd with a tap
Of my finger-nail on the sand,
Small, but a work divine,
