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Farewell, sad flowers, that on a desert blow,
Farewell! I plucked you from the Muses' bower,
And wove you in a garland, which an hour
Might on my aching eye enchantment throw.
Your leaves are pale and withered, and your flow
Of perfume wasted, your alluring power
Has vanished like the fleeting April shower,—
Too lovely flowers to spread your leaves below.
Sweet flowers! though withered, all the joy I know
Is when I breathe your balm, your wreath intwine;
And earth can only this delight bestow,
That sometimes all your loveliness is mine;
And then my frozen heart awhile will glow,
And life have moments, in its path divine!
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