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A Spring Harvest

by Geoffrey Bache Smith

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A Study

In chamber hung with white,
Lit by the dawning light,

Upon a slender bed
She lies, as she were dead:

Most carven-ivory fair,
And palely gold her hair.

Lo, the sun’s yellow ray,
That, with the rise of day,

Through quartered casement came
To wake her life’s pale flame.

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