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The Farmer’s Wife
She stands a moment in the sun,
Athwart her harsh land’s red and green —
Hands of a serf, and warrior eyes
Of some flame-sceptred Irish queen —
One moment, still. A little sob
Shakes parted lips and straining breast,
As if she heard the feet of those
Who tread her own forsaken quest;
As if she did not care that Life
Had snatched the jewels from her hair,
But grieved that menial needs and base
Were they which left her palace bare.
Then, with a strange and iron hand,
Destiny reaches forth and grips
The ruined cities in her eyes,
The bitter beauty of her lips.
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