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AT A BRIDAL
To——
WHEN you paced forth, to wait maternity,
A dream of other offspring held my mind.
Compounded of us twain as Love designed;
Rare forms, that corporate now will never be!
Should I, too, wed as slave to Mode's decree,
And each thus found apart, of false desire,
A stolid line, whom no high aims will fire
As had fired ours could ever have mingled we:
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