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She has the look of statues, having lain
Many years in her bed
That was like a cave where pain
Is gathered into corners and quieted.

She has been lying so stretched out full length
For many years till some
Of the bed's straight lassitude and strength
Is in the cool white thing she has become.

If now the violet and parsley bloom
She asks nothing of these:
She keeps in the pale area of her room
Something saved over from old agonies.