Upon the enchanted ladder of his rhymes, Round after round and patiently The poet ever upward climbs. _I need give my verse no hint as to whom it sings for. The rose, knowing her own right, makes servitors of the light-rays to carry her color. So every line here shall in some sense breathe of thee, and in its very face bear record of her whom, however unworthily, it seeks to serve and honor._…
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