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LXI. THE MEADOW-SWEET OF HEAVEN
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67

LXI. THE MEADOW-SWEET OF HEAVEN

I wrote of fragrant meadow-sweet of earth
And mourned to think that last year's bloom had perished:
So vanish all long love-thoughts that we've cherished,
I deemed—yea, passion crumbles at its birth.
I wandered through the woods,—the flowers were there,
So soft, so tender—but they all belonged
To that new season: all the flowers that thronged
The woods of old had passed outside God's care.
So thought I—and the thought was sad and cold;
For I had loved those blossoms, and had striven,
Mixing with fern their creamy plumes of old,
In my love's brown locks joyous wreaths to fold:—
The thought was sad: it passed; instead was given
A bright glimpse of the meadow-sweet of heaven.