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 ‘My son, come away,’ cried the mother, her voice cruel grown.
‘She is joined to her idols, like Ephraim; let her alone!’
But he knelt with his hand on her forehead, his lips to her ear,
And he called back the soul that was passing: ‘Marguerite, do you hear?’
She paused on the threshold of Heaven; love, pity, surprise,
Wistful, tender, lit up for an instant the cloud of her eyes.
With his heart on his lips he kissed her, but never her cheek grew red,
And the words the living long for he spake in the ear of the dead.
And the robins sang in the orchard, where buds to blossoms grew;
Of the folded hands and the still face never the robins knew!
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