The Virgin Perfect

The lowly things were sweet to her,
The clover and the dew;
Creation all seemed meet to her,
Both violet and rue.

A simple, busy day was hers
Within her garden dell;
The common, even way was hers,
But walked uncommon well.

Not that she heard, but kept the word,
In this her virtue lay;
She slept at night when slept the Word,
To slumber was to pray.
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