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Rh And gave me such a smile, so cold and bright, As if she tried it in a ’tiring glass And liked it; ‘all to-night I’ve strained at you, As babes at baubles held up out of reach By spiteful nurses, (‘Never snatch,’ they say,) And there you sate, most perfectly shut in By good Sir Blaize and clever Mister Smith, And then our dear Lord Howe! at last, indeed, I almost snatched. I have a world to speak About your cousin’s place in Shropshire, where I’ve been to see his work. . our work,—you heard I went? . . and of a letter yesterday, In which, if I should read a page or two, You might feel interest, though you’re locked of course In literary toil.—You’ll like to hear Your last book lies at the phalanstery, As judged innocuous for the elder girls And younger women who still care for books. We all must read, you see, before we live: But slowly the ineffable light comes up, And, as it deepens, drowns the written word,— So said your cousin, while we stood and felt A sunset from his favorite beech-tree seat: He might have been a poet if he would, But then he saw the higher thing at once, And climbed to it. It think he looks well now, Has quite got over that unfortunate. . Ah, ah. . I know it moved you. Tender-heart! You took a liking to the wretched girl. Perhaps you thought the marriage suitable,