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 NE has some friendships, folded, put away, Pressed into memory's leaves, like withered flow'rs, Which, though we know their bloom hath all departed, We give more love to than we often say, And still rejoice that we have called them ours, And feel, because of them, the stronger-hearted. And though we know one puff of healthy wind Would soon reduce them to the dust they are, One careless touch destroy their deadened beauty, We only grow, because of that, more kind, Avert more tenderly each threatened jar, And count their cherishing a precious duty.