She bore it till the simple veins Traced azure on her hand - Till 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?
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