JULIET'S NURSE
And paint disaster with uplifted whites,
Is life's epitome. She prates and prates —
A waterbrook of words o'er twelve small pebbles.
And when she dies — some grey, long, summer evening,
When the bird shouts of childhood through the dusk,
'Neath night's faint tapers — then her body shall
Lie stiff with silks of sixty thrifty years.
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