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—and only once—you gave

One rich gift, which Memory

Shuts within itself, to save

Sweet and fresh, while life may be:

Shuts it like a rose-leaf treasured

In the pages of a book,

Which we open, when heart-leisured,

Now and then—softly to look.

If I told you of that gift

How and when, the tend'ring of it,

Would you, out of rose-leaf thrift,

Claim from me the rend'ring of it?

That might make it two for one

('Twas of such unwonted kind!)

Half a mind I have to tell you

Not to tell you half a mind.