  More sweet than all the buds that blow Where summer’s rarest roses grow, More splendid than white lily spires, Or shining, scarlet poppy fires, Love’s fragrant flower,—even so, The blossom of the heart’s desires. And richer than all fields enfold Or all earth’s burdened branches hold, Than any autumn vintage red, Or yellow sheaves new harvested, Love’s ripened fruit of mellow gold, The sum of life, when all is said.
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