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RESERVE.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 


193

RESERVE.

MAPLE.


194

If her feelings, those buds of the heart,
Are slow their soft petals to part—
Too timid to brook
The world's cold look;
And dreading the slanderer's dart;—
When once they unfold in perfume,
They glow like the warm golden bloom
Which the maple-tree shows,
When its blossoms unclose,
Like light in the deep forest-gloom.