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REMEMBERED DOUBT.

IF she be to me a saint

And to you a devil be,

Speak not of her, dream not to slander her - faint

Or loud : her purity hath no taint, -

That is enough for me!

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You say that her smile is sweet,

You aver that her heart is cold. -

And false is false, tho' God be the cheat.

.... When I come to die, let my winding-sheet

Be her wind-blown hair of gold!

Say no ill of her to my face

Who call yourself my friend.

Shall it be curse for curse - not grace for grace,

And a pitiful look at the burial-place

Of the love her love could end?

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