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Flowers! the poetry of earth, Impulsive, pure, and wild, With what a strange delight they fill The wandering, mirthful child. It clasps their leaflets close awhile, Then strews them wide around, For life hath many a joy to spare Along its opening bound.

The maiden twines them in her hair, And mid that shining braid, How fair the violet's eye of blue, And the faint rose-bud's shade, Upon her polished neck they blush, In her soft hand they shine, And better crown those peerless charms Than all Golconda's mine.