< Page:Flora (Heinemann 1919).djvu 
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THE COMB
My mother sate me at her glass;
This necklet of bright flowers she wove;
Crisscross her gentle hands did pass,
And wound in my hair her love.
Deep in the mirror our glances met.
And grieved, lest from her care I roam,
She kissed me through her tears, and set
On high this spangling comb.
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