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To the memory of H. H.

O soul of fire within a woman's clay!
Lifting with slender hands a race's wrong,
Whose mute appeal hushed all thine early song,
And taught thy passionate heart the loftier way,--

What shall thy place be in the realm of day?
What disembodied world can hold thee long,
Binding thy turbulent pulse with spell more strong?
Dwell'st thou, with wit and jest, where poets may,

Or with ethereal women (born of air
And poet's dreams) dost live in ecstasy,
Teach new love-thoughts to Shakespeare's Juliet fair,

New moods to Cleopatra? Then, set free,
The woes of Shelley's Helen thou dost share,
Or weep with poor Rossetti's Rose Mary.

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Shelley (1)
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