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Yet still its soft leaves it unfolds, 
Nor aught of fragrancy withholds, 
Filling with sweets the wind’s rude wing 
As though’t were gentlest gale of spring, — 
Thus may’st thou bow the storm beneath, 
Thus meekly re-ascend; 
And thus may praise its incensed breath 
With sigh of sorrow blend. 
Without or bud or sheltering spray 
Yon flow’ret meets the tempest’s sway, 
Whilst thou in sweet domestic bower 
Art screen’d in sorrow’s trying hour, 
A husband’s kindly arm thy stay 
When cares and griefs abound, 
And buds of promise fair and gay 
Encircling thee around. 
Buds whose young beauties wake the thought, 
With hope and comfort richly fraught, 
That when their opening charms assume 
Their destined character and bloom, 
On this cold earth thou wilt not grieve 
With none to share thy sigh, 
But loved, protected, cherish’d live. 
And wept and honour’d die. 
