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HEN the tree of Love is budding first,
 * Ere yet its leaves are green,

Ere yet, by shower and sunbeam nursed
 * Its infant life has been;

The wild bee’s slightest touch might wring
 * The buds from off the tree,

As the gentle dip of the swallow’s wing
 * Breaks the bubbles on the sea.

But when its open leaves have found
 * A home in the free air,

Pluck them, and there remains a wound
 * That ever rankles there.

The blight of hope and happiness
 * Is felt when fond ones part,

And the bitter tear that follows is
 * The life-blood of the heart.