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    The Miracle
    by Breton Braley

    Out of a reeking tenement she trips,
        Dainty and slim and delicately fair:
    Her cheeks are rose, and rose-red are her lips,
        She is a flower, grown in tainted air;
        You can't believe she could have flourished there,
    Where even noonday sun is in eclipse,
        Where grim reality the glamour strips
        From all life's dreams and leaves them stark and bare.

    Yet here she is, a flower lush and sweet,
        That throve, somehow, in rank and fetid soil;
    Young maidenhood, with light and lilting feet,
        And eyes which disillusion cannot spoil;
    And--miracle which few can understand--
    There are a million like her in the land!

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