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18

Through that cypress avenue, Such a garden meets the view, Filled with flowers—flowers that seem Lighted up by the sunbeam; Fruits of gold and gems, and leaves Green as Hope before it grieves O’er the false and broken-hearted, All with which its youth has parted, Never to return again, Save in memories of pain! There is a white rose in yon bower, But holds it a yet fairer flower: And music from that cage is breathing, Round which a jasmine braid is wreathing,