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The Boats of the Glen Carrig: Dedication


MADRE MIA



People may say thou art no longer young
  And yet, to me, thy youth was yesterday,
    A yesterday that seems
    Still mingled with my dreams.
Ah! how the years have o'er thee flung
  Their soft mantilla, grey.


And e'en to them thou art not over old;
  How could'st thou be! Thy hair
    Hast scarcely lost its deep old glorious dark:
    Thy face is scarcely lined. No mark
Destroys its calm serenity. Like gold
  Of evening light, when winds scarce stir,
  The soul-light of thy face is pure as prayer.


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