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 light flower leaves its little core Begun upon the waiting bough. Again she bears what she once bore And what she knew she re-learns now.

The cracked glass fuses at a touch. The wound heals over, and is set In the whole flesh, and is not much Quite to remember or forget.

Rocket and tree, and dome and bubble Again behind her freshened eyes Are treacherous. She need not trouble. Her lids will know them when she dies.

And while she lives, the unwise, heady Dream, ever denied and driven, Will one day find her bosom ready,— That never thought to be forgiven. [ 27 ]