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SEVENTEEN.

SHE is seventeen!

Sun-brown eyes and hair;

In her cheeks are set

Roses bright and rare.

She is seventeen!

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Airy is her tread,

Idle dreams of love

Flitting through her head.

Could the bird of Time

But delay his wing;

Could the rolling year

Be but ever spring;

Could my lady fair,

Maid of seventeen,

Stand but ever thus

Hovering between

Childhood's fleeting smiles

And that fatal hour

When the woman wakes

Conscious of her power!

C. P.

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