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Rh

And thou, meek hyacinth! afar is roving The bee that oft thy trembling bells hath kiss'd; Cradled ye were, fair flowers! midst all things loving, A joy to all—yet, yet, ye are not miss'd!

Ye, that were born to lend the sunbeam gladness, And the winds fragrance, wandering where they list! —Oh! it were breathing words too deep in sadness, To say—earth's human flowers not more are miss'd.