  PEACE in her chamber, wheresoe’er It be, a holy place: The thought still brings my soul such grace As morning meadows wear. Whether it still be small and light, A maid’s who dreams alone, As from her orchard-gate the moon Its ceiling showed at night: Or whether, in a shadow dense As nuptial hymns invoke, Innocent maidenhood awoke To married innocence: Then still the thanks unheard await The unconscious gift bequeathed; For there my soul this hour has breathed An air inviolate. |
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