She walked into the church in early spring,
Upon her father’s arm a pretty picture . . .
—And in her dream she took a lover’s ring,
An emblem of delight and of conjecture.

Her life entire was like a letter home,
A letter which no other woman wrote.
Read it with love: the lover bears no name;
Her lineage lies golden on her throat.

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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 7 Number 10, on page 36
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