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Poem by Florence Earle Coates
As a wan weaver in an attic dim, Hopeless yet patient, so he may be fed With scanty store of sorrow-seasoned bread, Heareth a blithe bird carol over him, And sees no longer walls and rafters grim, But rural lanes where little feet are led Through springing flowers, fields with clover spread, Clouds, swan-like, that o'er depths of azure swim,— So, when upon our earth-dulled ear new breaks Some fragment, Sappho, of thy skyey song, A noble wonder in our souls awakes; The deathless Beautiful draws strangely nigh, And we look up, and marvel how so long We were content to drudge for sordid joys that die.
Florence Earle Coates
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