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THE GARDEN, by                    
First Line: O you, who chide my passion
Last Line: Pale marguerite.

O you, who chide my passion
In so cruel fashion,
When may I hope release
From love, and peace?

Between her cheeks and gleaming
Lips a mole lies dreaming,
A negro who at dawn
Surveys the lawn.

Bewildered which to gather,
Whether he would rather
The roses, or the sweet
Pale marguerite.

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