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The Three Sisters

Arthur Davison Ficke

Gone are the three, those sisters rare
 With wonder-lips and eyes ashine.
One was wise and one was fair,
 And one was mine.

Ye mourners, weave for the sleeping hair
 Of only two, your ivy vine.
For one was wise and one was fair,
 But one was mine.

Online text © 1998-2008 Poetry X. All rights reserved.
From The Second Book of Modern Verse | 1919

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