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TO A POET’S WIFE.
TO A POET’S WIFE.
She, who in lonely pride may wear
The laurel on her brow,
And sit beneath its chilling shade,
Is far less blest than thou.
The laurel on her brow,
And sit beneath its chilling shade,
Is far less blest than thou.
A higher happiness is thine,
To hear the voice of Fame
Re-echo in her silver tones,
The one beloved name.
To hear the voice of Fame
Re-echo in her silver tones,
The one beloved name.
