JASMINE—THE MATRON 
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’ALE was her hue; yet mortal cheek 
Ne’er kindled with a livelier streak 
When aught had suffered wrong; — 
When aught that breathes had felt a wound; 
Such look the oppressor might confound, 
However proud and strong. 
But hushed be every thought that springs 
From out the bitterness of things; 
Her quiet is secure: 
No thorns can pierce her tender feet, 
Whose life was, like the violet, sweet, 
As climbing Jasmine, pure: 
As snowdrop on an infant’s grave, 
Or lily heaving with the wave 
That feeds it, or defends; 
As Vesper, ere the star hath kissed 
The mountain-top, or breathed the mist 
That from the vale ascends. 
Wordsworth. 
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