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of man, but of what man who knows? That broughtest healing on thy leathern wings To priests, and under them didst gather kings, And madest friends to thee of all man's foes; Before thine incarnation, the tale goes, Thy virgin mother, pure of sensual stings, Communed by night with angels of chaste things, And, full of grace, untimely felt the throes Of motherhood upon her, and believed The obscure annunciation made when late A raven-feathered raven-throated dove Croaked salutation to the mother of love Whose misconception was immaculate, And when her time was come she misconceived.