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The Baby sorceress.

Our baby sits beneath the tall elm-trees,
A wreath of tangled ribbons in her hands;
She twines and twists the many-colored strands,
A little sorceress, weaving destinies.

Now the pure white she grasps; now nought can please
But strips of crimson, lurid as the brands
From passion's fires, or yellow, like the sands
That lend soft setting to the azure seas.

And so with sweet incessant toil she fills
A summer hour, still following fancies new,
Till through my heart a sudden terror thrills

Lest, as she weaves, her aimless choice prove true.
Thank God, our fates proceed not from our wills!
The Power that spins the thread shall blend the hue.

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