See what flowers are at my feet,
What soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
Wherewith the seasonable mouth endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
White hawthorne, fast-fading violets
And the coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunts of summer eves.
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Jessica Schlagenhauser 2016-10-16
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