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TO SIGISMOND.

WHEN fields are green and days are fair,

And hearts respond,

I'll make a posy rich and rare

For Sigismond.

No artificial growth of flowers

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Shall find a place

In that bouquet; but woody bowers

O'er Nature's face

And every broad and sunny mead

Shall give to me

Fresh blooms to satisfy my need,

For love of thee.

The modest blooms of early prime

Become thee best;

The arbute, springing ere its time,

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