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TO A FLOWER

FOUND DEAD IN A BOOK OF POETRY.

Colorless, scentless, faded, melancholy,

A score of years you've missed warm sun, sweet air,

Yet happier you than those so gay and jolly

In the parterre.

Useless they bloom, and useless will they wither,

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Little the better for their short-lived glory.

Well might they envy that which brought you hither, -

You've had a story!

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