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IMOGEN GEORGE
SHE was of Herrick's golden kind, Clear Devon to the end; Each trick of jest was in her blood And hers to save or spend.
So gay a thing! Now low in dust The loveliness of her; In lane, in house, her laughter yet Makes a frail, tender stir.
Hers were the very quips of spring; And often we looked about, To see, if somewhere, all at once, A cherry-tree were out.
With Herrick of the daffodils, With them of old renown, She wanders in a happier place Than Devon, or this town.