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Fires of Driftwood

by Isabel Ecclestone Mackay

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The Meeting

SHE flitted by me on the stair—
A moment since I knew not of her.
A look, a smile—she passed! but where
She flitted by me on the stair
Joy cradled exquisite despair;
For who am I that I should love her?
She flitted by me on the stair—
A moment since I knew not of her!

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