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are we who bear Our shining loads to the temple fair. . . . Who will buy these delicate, bright Rainbow-tinted circles of light? Lustrous tokens of radiant lives, For happy daughters and happy wives.

Some are meet for a maiden's wrist, Silver and blue as the mountain-mist, Some are flushed like the buds that dream On the tranquil brow of a woodland stream; Some are aglow with the bloom that cleaves To the limpid glory of new-born leaves.

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