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He mark'd their blended hues With sad, reproachful eye— For one was the symbol of thoughtless mirth, And one of coquetry.

Yet he would not be baffled thus— So he brought for my chrystal vase The Rose-geranium's tender bloom. And the blushing Hawthorn's grace.

And a brilliant and fresh bouquet Of the rich Moss-rose he bore, Whose eloquent buds with dew-drops pearl'd,  Were full of the heart's deep lore,

I could not refuse the gift, Though I knew the spell it wove;— But I gave him back a snow-white bud: "Too young—too young to love."

Then he proffer'd a myrtle wreath, With damask roses fair, And took the liberty—only think! To bind it round my hair.

And he prest in my yielding hand The Everlasting Pea, Whose questioning lip of perfume breath'd,   "Oh, say, wilt thou go with me?"