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ADY, although we have not met,
 * And may not meet, beneath the sky;

And whether thine are eyes of jet, Gray, or dark blue, or violet,
 * Or hazel—Heaven knows, not I;

Whether around thy cheek of rose
 * A maiden’s glowing locks are curled,

And to some thousand kneeling beaux Thy frown is cold as winter’s snows,
 * Thy smile is worth a world;

Or whether, past youth’s joyous strife,
 * The calm of thought is on thy brow,

And thou art in thy noon of life, Loving and loved, a happy wife,
 * And happier mother now—

I know not: but, whate’er thou art,
 * Whoe’er thou art, were mine the spell,

To call Fate’s joys or blunt his dart, There should not be one hand or heart
 * But served or wished thee well.