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Rh For thou art woman—with that word
 * Life’s dearest hopes and memories come,

Truth, Beauty, Love—in her adored, And earth’s lost Paradise restored
 * In the green bower of home.

What is man’s love? His vows are broke,
 * Even while his parting kiss is warm;

But woman’s love all change will mock, And, like the ivy round the oak,
 * Cling closest in the storm.

And well the Poet at her shrine
 * May bend, and worship while he woos;

To him she is a thing divine, The inspiration of his line,
 * His Sweetheart and his Muse.

If to his song the echo rings
 * Of Fame—’tis woman’s voice he hears;

If ever from his lyre’s proud strings Flow sounds like rush of angel-wings, ’Tis that she listens while he sings,
 * With blended smiles and tears:

Smiles—tears—whose blessed and blessing power,
 * Like sun and dew o’er summer’s tree,

Alone keeps green through Time’s long hour, That frailer thing than leaf or flower,
 * A poet’s immortality.