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THE LAST COACH
Before her mirror in a pouting mood,
Afraid to weep lest anger should revoke
The picture there, she did impatient brood
Why Fate should treat her worse than other folk.
Her lilac frock her mother's hand caressed,
So fond and helpful in maternal pride,
Here to its place a slipping button pressed,
And there a wayward ribbon softly tied.
"They will not come!" the maid in her despair
Cries out on Fate who serves her now so ill:
"'Tis past the hour, and oh! they do not care,
They have forgot that I am waiting still."
Upon the breeze there comes the sudden beat
Of many hoofs and hum of turning wheels,
The murmur of low voices in the street,
And from afar a church bell faintly peals.
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