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THOMAS HOOD
Look at her garments Clinging like cerements; Whilst the wave constantly
Drips from her clothing; Take her up instantly,
Loving, not loathing.
Touch her not scornfully; Think of her mournfully,
Gently and humanly; Not of the stains of her, All that remains of her
Now is pure womanly.
Make no deep scrutiny Into her mutiny
Rash and undutiful: Past all dishonour, Death has left on her
Only the beautiful.
Still, for all slips of hers,
One of Eve's family Wipe those poor lips of hers
Oozing so clammily.
Loop up her tresses
Escaped from the comb, Her fair auburn tresses; Whilst wonderment guesses
Where was her home?
Who was her father? Who was her mother?
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