XXIV


       Out of her secret Paradise she sped,
       Through camps and cities rough with stone, and steel,
       And human hearts, which to her aery tread
       Yielding not, wounded the invisible
       Palms of her tender feet where’er they fell:
       And barbed tongues, and thoughts more sharp than they,
       Rent the soft Form they never could repel,
       Whose sacred blood, like the young tears of May,
Pav’d with eternal flowers that undeserving way.

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