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Poem by Isaac Rosenberg
She stood-a hill-ensceptred Queen, The glory streaming from her ; While Heaven flashed her rays between, And shed eternal summer. The gates of morning opened wide On sunny dome and steeple; Noon gleamed upon the mountain-side 'Thronged with a happy people ; And twilight's drowsy, half closed eyes Beheld that virgin splendour Whose orbs were as her darkening skies, And as her spirit, tender. Girt with that strength, first-horn of right, Held fast by deeds of honour, I ler robe she wove with rays more bright Than Heaven could rain upon her. Where is that light-that citadel That robe with woof of glory ? She lost her virtue and she fell, And only left her story.
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