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Garber Privately Tells Faculty That Harvard Must Rethink Messaging After GOP Victory
MY maid of maids, my sweetheart,
Strayed mid the growing grain,
Whose crested heads oft curious rose,
Nodding as roused from deep repose,
Resting entranced a moment's space
In wonder at her lovely face.
Rustles the news the gold field through,
Uprise their serried ranks anew,
Glowing with eagerness, I ween, -
Then lowly bow to Beauty's Queen.
The air its sweetest perfume brings,
While cooling wafts from angel wings
Refresh her cheeks. Her waving hair
Holds quivering sunbeams prisoned there;
The deep sea's pearl illumes her smile,
The sky's clear blue her eye the while,
But changing with her varying thought;
Of earth, sea, heaven, lacking naught, -
Eye, mind, and language all too mean
To portray her, my Beauty's Queen.
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