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Had worn her heart on a sleeve.
Hid it when she’d had to grieve.
She’d cried for much less since
for every unworthy prince.

A moat of tears had flooded her moat.
Her drawbridge had buckled under the letters she wrote.
One winter morn, the snow had settled, and lay
where she would a following summer’s day.

America loomed large, as Ireland became a speck
in the distance, and on deck.
She drank to the emerald isle
And fell asleep with a smile.

A grandmother she would be
Over years and years, over that sea.
It may last for just a minute, or at its own pace
But if it’s the latter, fairy-tale tellers will veer from liqueur to lace.

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