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a web of many textures

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A rose of rarest beauty met my view,
Half in the verdant dewy foliage lying;
I strove to reach it, but too high it grew,
And the fair flower escaped my earnest trying.
At last, a ladder gained, I plucked the prize,
And deemed myself well paid for toil expended;
Alas! I found it only pleased the eyes, —
No fragrant odor with its beauty blended!
And then this moral crossed my vision's disc:
That there are human roses brightly blooming,
For which men neck and peace together risk,
But find, when gained, no gentle heart-perfuming, —
No breathing sweets amid the flower they 've won,
And feel the sense of being severely “done.”