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SAINT MARGARET
Just ere the swell of the down is broken
Sheer by the sea cliff, sky and air
Brood o’er a farmplace bleak and bare,
Where the wind is master; and this is his token—
Two writhen trees, and no more, are there.
You might call it God-forsaken, only
Within her white-wall’d chamber lies
Margaret, gazing thro’ the skies,
Or past the sweep of the upland lonely:
Margaret, with the grateful eyes!
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