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She bore it till the simple veins
Traced azure on her hand
Til pleading, round her quiet eyes
The purple Crayons stand
Till Daffodils had come and gone
I cannot tell the sum
And then she ceased to bear it
And with the Saints sat down
No more her patient figure
At twilight soft to meet
No more her timid bonnet
Upon the village street
But Crowns instead, and Courtiers
And in the midst so fair
Whose but her shy—immortal face
Of whom we're whispering here?