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Not for the cold, the careless to impart, By such sweet signs, the silence of the heart: But surely in the countries where the sun Lights loveliness in all he shines upon,— Where love is as a mystery and a dream, One single flower upon life's troubled stream; There, there, perchance, may the young bosom thrill, Feeling and fancy linger with love still.

She look'd upon the blossoms, and a smile, A twilight one, lit up her lip the while. Surely her love is blest, no leaves are there That aught of lover's misery declare. True, 'mid them is that pale and pining flower, Whose dim blue colour speaks an absent hour; Yet it is nothing but that tender sorrow Of those who part to-day to meet to-morrow: