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JUST ere the swell of the down is broken Sheer by the sea cliff, sky and air Brood o’er a farmplace bleak and bare, Where the wind is master; and this is his token— Two writhen trees, and no more, are there.

You might call it God-forsaken, only Within her white-wall’d chamber lies Margaret, gazing thro’ the skies, Or past the sweep of the upland lonely: Margaret, with the grateful eyes!