lifetsyle

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Wisdom


She never dreamed that happiness would trace
Its April self so clearly in her face
For him to see; nor doubted she could leave
So small a heart upon so sheer a sleeve
Unmarked. Now, wise too late, she tries to wear
Her adoration with a careless air---
Lest, grown so sure, he find it very dull:
Being eternally impeccable.

Written by Anita Scott Coleman (1890-1960)

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