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The Tomb of Ilaria Giunigi. Edith Wharton

ILARIA, thou that wert so fair and dear
That death would fain disown thee, grief made wise
With prophecy thy husband′s widowed eyes,
And bade him call the master′s art to rear
Thy perfect image on the sculptured bier,
With dreaming lids, hands laid in peaceful guise
Beneath the breast that seems to fall and rise,
And lips that at love′s call should answer "Here!"

First-born of the Renascence, when thy soul
Cast the sweet robing of the flesh aside,
Into these lovelier marble limbs it stole,
Regenerate in art′s sunrise clear and wide,
As saints who, having kept faith′s raiment whole,
Change it above for garments glorified.

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