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1820–1897

XLVIII.

Jean Ingelow

Then these two long silence hold, And the lisping babe doth say ‘ White white bird, it flew away.’ And they marvel at these things,

For her ghostly visitings Turn to them another face. Haply she was sent, a friend Trying them, and to good end

For their better weal and grace; One more wonder let to be In the might and mystery Of the world, where verily

And good sooth a man may wend All his life, and no more view Than the one right next to do.

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XLVIII. · Jean Ingelow · Poetry Cove