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 | An idyl of work |  |
All orphanage awoke her love; but now
This Eleanor, who toiled for daily bread,
In her pale beauty, fragile unto pain,
Seemed to glide in and fill the emptiest nook
Of her warm heart, that echoed, “Mine! my child!”
This Eleanor, who toiled for daily bread,
108
Seemed to glide in and fill the emptiest nook
Of her warm heart, that echoed, “Mine! my child!”
| An idyl of work | |