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WALL-FLOWER. 
There may be gaudier on the bower, 
And statelier on the tree, 
But Wall-flower, loved Wall-flower, 
Thou art the flower for me. 
The same. — townsend. 
The Rose and Lily blossom fair, 
But all unmeet for Sorrow’s child; 
They deck the bower and gay parterre, 
As if for Mirth alone they smiled. 
The Cowslip nods upon the lea; 
And, where wild wreaths the green lanes dress. 
The Woodbine blooms, but not for me, 
For these are haunts of Happiness. 
I will not seek the mossy bed, 
Where Violets court soft vernal showers, 
For Quiet there reclines her head, 
And Innocence is gathering flowers. 
The Wall-flower only shall be mine; 
Its simple faith is dear to me: 
To roofless tower, and prostrate shrine, 
It clings with patient constancy. 
And, prodigal of love, blooms on, 
Though all unseen its beauties die, 
And, though for desert gales alone, 
Breathes fragrance rich as Araby. 
