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SAINT MARGARET
The noon-sun’s finger turns the moss
A-bask on the barn-roof, golden-green;
The ricks are bright with paly sheen;
The treetops rustle not, nor toss;
All is silent, still, serene.
Only the swallows flit and flicker
Rapidly, rapidly, round and round,
Now fanning the straws on the court-yard ground
With smooth down-swoop, now quicker and quicker
Pulsing up with a strong rebound.
Margaret, at her window lying,
Studies this ripening world outside,
This book before her open’d wide;
Looks for help in this strange pass—Dying;
Sees; and lies there, satisfied!
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