June reared that bunch of flowers you carry
From seeds of April’s sowing.
I plant a heartful now: some seed
At least is sure to strike,
And yield—what you’ll not pluck indeed,
Not love, but, may be, like!
You’ll look at least on love’s remains,
A grave’s one violet:
Your look?—that pays a thousand pains.
What’s death?—You’ll love me yet!
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I.
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Sit here by my side,On my knees put up both little feet!I was sure, if I tried,I could make you laugh spite of Scirocco.Now, open your eyes,Let me keep you amused till he vanishIn black from the skies,With telling my memories overAs you tell your beads;All the Plain saw me gather, I garland—The flowers or…
‘Thou thoughtest that I was altogether such a one as thyself.’
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