There was one lady walked,
No, she was not young;
Just merely nine and twenty.
Oh, she had a year till dawn!
But mine earnest thought light,
My darkest angel blight,
A weeping fit to fight,
If eerily brought yea right,
Knew my conscience then this fright,
Who brought this her night;
Bought brilliant this book!
It gave her more than life.
Every page more she read,
Every word here remembered,
Her late husband would be gay,
Till morn alone would be day,
But none would spell her gay,
Till queer as folk brand her gay,
Though cheery yet she was,
And like ribbons flew at once,
Now creased in greatest sad,
Yet crushed by brilliant joy,
Now saw her value lay,
Till ebay saw the light of day,
When bidders wept for more,
So too did joy creep her more!
Alas, she knew lost her book,
For not one, nor two a gain,
But thousands ought be gain!
Though when she saw the prize,
It begot little ought by size!
She gave each child a page
With each account of a page,
This was her book,
Now it was her darling page
What each child betook,
It was her heart that shook.

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