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"L. M."

Not quite a faultless-seeming face; Yet something of a nameless grace, And raidance from a higher place,

About the comfort-giving eyes, And brown hair worn Madonna-wise Across the tender forehead, lies, -

And round dear lips that are so calm With loving words of loving balm, Floats like the spirit of a psalm

Sung when the swinging censers go Before the altar to and fro, And all the people's heads are low

Awing the stormful turbulence Of my rough manhood with the sense Of meekness, and the affluence