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Or crimson, fleck'd with white, thro' the broad leaves, Were redolent of beauty. So, methought I'd close my books, and study with the flowers, Where sang the bee; and where, for aught I knew, Might winged angels hover. Closely hid In a dense grape-vine, was a cunning nest, Which oftimes I had visited, to strew Crumbs for the brooding mother. On that morn When fell disease stalk'd near me with his chain, Intent to smite me, tho' I knew it not, I had withdrawn those curtaining leaves, and met Her clear, bright eye. Now, all were fled and gone! Yes, those small eggs with gladness and with song Had travell'd forth to swell the tide of love That bathes Creation in its boundless sea. Oh! ever-watchful goodness, that doth work Whether we sleep, or, 'neath the weight of pain, Bow down in dreamy reverie; while time,