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When her tiny means were squandered, Sick at heart & weak with want: And within the swift green river, Far from all the city’s strife, She had sought, to last for ever, Quiet for her fevered life.
III Quiet was indeed the meadow Sloping to the lilied stream; Standing there amid the shadow In the sunset’s broken gleam, They could only hear the quiver Of the rushes in the breeze, And the ripple of the river, And the tossing of the trees Sep 5/88 -------