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75

She died at play,
Gambolled away
Her lease of spotted hours,
Then sank as gaily as a Turn
Upon a Couch of flowers.

Her ghost strolled softly o'er the hill
Yesterday, and Today,
Her vestments as the silver fleece—
Her countenance as spray.

Added: 19 Aug 2002 | Last Read: 7 Jun 2025 4:49 PM | Viewed: 8589 times

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