Starry freckles blaze upon her cheeks
And dance like the hearth’s straying sparks,
They pulse like dawn in winter weeks
Over the mist-dewed hymns of larks.
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A blindfold hued the eggshell of her dress:
Some hands held heads, fresh-washed with many tears…
For she was six and ten, no more, no less.
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I wander through lands sun-kissed by your dust…
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