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Poems and Lyrics
The Princess
I loved her, one
Not learned, save in gracious household ways,
Nor perfect, nay, but full of tender wants,
No Angel instincts, breathing Paradise,
Interpreter between the gods and men,
Who look'd all native to her place, and yet
On tiptoe seem'd to touch upon a sphere
Too gross to tread,
and all male minds perforce
Sway's to her from their orbits
as they moved,
And girdled her with music. Happy he
With such a mother! faith in womenkind
Beats with his blood,
and trust in all things high
Comes easy to him, and tho' he trip and fall,
He shall not blind his soul with clay.
- Alfred Lord Tennyson
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