  I praise the tender flower, That on a mournful day Bloomed in my garden bower And made the winter gay. Its loveliness contented My heart tormented. I praise the gentle maid Whose happy voice and smile To confidence betrayed My doleful heart awhile: And gave my spirit deploring Fresh wings for soaring. The maid for very fear Of love I durst not tell: The rose could never hear, Though I bespake her well: So in my song I bind them |
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