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To pluck it from its bed, and yet Its root in depth and strength is set. The July sun, the autumn rain, Beat on its slender stalk in vain;— Around it spreads, despite of care, Till the whole garden is its share; And other plants must fade and fall Beneath its deep and deadly thrall. This is love's emblem; it is nurst In all unconciousness at first, Too slight, too fair, to wake distrust; No sign how that an after hour Will rue and weep its fatal power. 'Twas thus with ; she had dream'd Of love as his first likeness seem'd, A sweet thought o'er which she might brood, The treasure of her solitude;