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The Poetical Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning
img img The Poetical Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning img Chapter 467 No.467
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Chapter 467 No.467

You think I shrieked then? Not a sound!

I hung, as a gourd hangs in the sun;

I only cursed them all around

As softly as I might have done

My very own child: from these sands

Up to the mountains, lift your hands,

O slaves, and end what I begun!

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