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Violet Clarke—died March 21, 1909 eager knowledge of our ancient lore, And prescient love of all our ancient race, You came to us, with gentle hands that bore Bright gifts of genius, youth, and subtle grace,

Our shrines, our sacred streams, our sumptuous art, Old hills that scale the sky's unageing dome, Recalled some long-lost rapture to your heart, Some far-off memory of your spirit's home. We said: "She comes, an exquisite, strange flower From the rich gardens of a northern king". . . But lo! our souls perceived you in that hour The very rose whereof our poets sing.

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