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Was an English poet and critic.
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Coventry Patmore's poems
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It was not like your great and gracious ways! Do you, that have naught other to lament,
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'If I were dead, you'd sometimes say, Poor Child!' The dear lips quiver'd as they spake,
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With all my will, but much against my heart, We two now part.
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A woman is a foreign land, Of which, though there he settle young,
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Here, in this little Bay, Full of tumultuous life and great repose,
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Ah, wasteful woman, she who may On her sweet self set her own price,
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Love, light for me Thy ruddiest blazing torch,
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