Florence Earle Coates


SILENT amidst unbroken silence deep
Of dateless years, in loneliness supreme,
She pondered patiently one mighty theme,
And let the hours, uncounted, by her creep
The motionless Himalayas, the broad sweep
Of glacial cataracts, great Ganges’ stream,—
All these to her were but as things that seem,
Doomed all to pass, like phantoms viewed in sleep.
Her history? She has none,—scarce a name.

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