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To A Rose

Thou hast not toiled, sweet Rose,
Yet needest rest;
Softly thy petals close
Upon thy breast,
Like folded hands, of labor long oppressed.


Naught knowest thou of sin,
Yet tears are thine;
Baptismal drops within
Thy chalice shine,
At morning's birth, at evening's calm decline.


Alas! one day hath told
The tale to thee!
Thy tender leaves enfold
Life's mystery:
Its shadow falls alike on thee and me!

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