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Rh Except for Romney. Had he married Kate, I surely, surely, should be very glad. This Florence sits upon me easily, With native air and tongue. My graves are calm, And do not too much hurt me. Marian’s good, Gentle and loving,—lets me hold the child, Or drags him up the hills to find me flowers And fill those vases, ere I’m quite awake,— The grandiose red tulips, which grow wild, Or else my purple lilies, Dante blew To a larger bubble with his prophet-breath; Or one of those tall flowering reeds which stand In Arno like a sheaf of sceptres, left By some remote dynasty of dead gods, To suck the stream for ages and get green, And blossom wheresoe’er a hand divine Had warmed the place with ichor. Such I’ve found At early morning, laid across my bed, And woke up pelted with a childish laugh Which even Marian’s low precipitous ‘hush’ Had vainly interposed to put away,— While I, with shut eyes, smile and motion for The dewy kiss that’s very sure to come From mouth and cheeks, the whole child’s face at once Dissolved on mine,—as if a nosegay burst Its string with the weight of roses overblown, And dropt upon me. Surely I should be glad. The little creature almost loves me now, And calls my name. . ‘Alola,’ stripping off The rs like thorns, to make it smooth enough