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Love!" said Life, "that hast nor gold,

Nor lands, nor other store, I ween;

Thy very shelter from the cold

Is oft but lowly built and mean."

Nay: though of rushes be my bed,

Yet am I rich," Love said.

But," argued Life, "thrice fond art thou

To yield the sovereign gifts of Earth—

The victor sword, the laureled brow—

For visioned things of little worth!"