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Plant in a garden grew, And the young winds fed it with silver dew, And it opened its fan-like leaves to the light, And closed them beneath the kisses of night.

And the Spring arose on the garden fair, Like the Spirit of Love felt every where; And each flower and herb on Earth’s dark breast Rose from the dreams of its wintry rest.

But none ever trembled and panted with bliss In the garden, the field, or the wilderness, Like a doe in the noon-tide with love’s sweet want, As the companionless Sensitive Plant.