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Dedicatory Poem to the Princess Alice

       
    Dead Princess, living Power, if that which lived
    True life live on–and if the fatal kiss,
    Born of true life and love, divorce thee not
    From earthly love and life–if what we call
    The spirit flash not all at once from out
    This shadow into Substance–then perhaps
    The mellow’d murmur of the people’s praise
    From thine own State, and all our breadth of realm,
    Where Love and Longing dress thy deeds in light,
    Ascends to thee; and this March morn that sees
    Thy Soldier-brother’s bridal orange-bloom
    Break thro’ the yews and cypress of thy grave,
    And thine Imperial mother smile again,
    May send one ray to thee! and who can tell–
    Thou–England’s England-loving daughter–thou
    Dying so English thou wouldst have her flag
    Borne on thy coffin–where is he can swear
    But that some broken gleam from our poor earth
    May touch thee, while, remembering thee, I lay
    At thy pale feet this ballad of the deeds
    Of England, and her banner in the East?
     


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