strolls in the shining rain,
layers of petticoats tied heavy,
laced in patrician airs assured.
Fair with an ancient gravity,
She faces the east, plain to the fickle day-
(he who comes and comes not)-
more a song than deserved suitor,
She of no blemish but longing mourn.
'Tis the season to wait, poised with hope,
A goddess subdued in trappings of time-
in somber, rich emerald, her masquerade,
yet she glows just the same.
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