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PAGE
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| XVI. |
To W. E. Henley—The year runs through her phases |
36
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| XVII. |
Henry James—Who comes to-night |
38
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| XVIII. |
The Mirror Speaks—Where the bells |
39
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| XIX. |
Katharine—We see you as we see a face |
41
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| XX. |
To F. J. S.—I read, dear friend |
42
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| XXI. |
Requiem—Under the wide and starry sky |
43
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| XXII. |
The Celestial Surgeon—If I have faltered |
44
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| XXIII. |
Our Lady of the Snows—Out of the sun |
45
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| XXIV. |
Not yet, my soul |
50
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| XXV. |
It is not yours, O mother, to complain |
53
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| XXVI. |
The Sick Child—O mother, lay your hand on my brow |
56
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| XXVII. |
In Memoriam F. A. S.—Yet, O stricken heart |
58
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| XXVIII. |
To my Father—Peace and her huge invasion |
60
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| XXIX. |
In the States—With half a heart |
62
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| XXX. |
A Portrait—I am a kind of farthing dip |
63
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| XXXI. |
Sing clearlier, Muse |
65
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| XXXII. |
A Camp—The bed was made |
66
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| XXXIII. |
The Country of the Camisards—We travelled in the print of olden wars |
67
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| XXXIV. |
Skerryvore—For love of lovely words |
68
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| XXXV. |
Skerryvore: The Parallel—Here all is sunny |
69
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| XXXVI. |
My house, I say |
70
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| XXXVII. |
My body which my dungeon is |
71
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| XXXVIII. |
Say not of me that weakly I declined |
73
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