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 HITE violet garlands, Syrian myrrh, Deep roseate cups of Chian wine, Sounds that your deepest being stir. Sleek limbs that shine, — Ah ! take them. Youth, for youtli's fair sake ; Yet, not forgetting human hap : The wreath may fade, the nard-box break. The lyre-string snap. Ease, bliss, and beauty, which beget A sensual faith in things that be, Are like a blossoming garden set Down by the sea. They flourish, till some night-wind blows The swelling tide across the land, And buries tulip, pink, and rose In salt and sand. Since, tho' the slow receding tide Withdraw its froth and crawling tilings. Yet, where that wandering wave hath sighed. No fresh bloom springs. Edmund Gosse.