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And this rich Crimson Rose, Flora’s idol and pride, 
Whose odor the breezes are scattering wide, 
With ‘ Beauty and Love ’ have so long been allied, 
That poets have called it ‘ the Nightingale’s bride.’ 
And though last not the least of the treasures we’ve found 
This fragrant Geranium our bouquet has crowned, 
Of 1 Preference ’ speaking, though numbers surround, 
It is hers who a captive our true heart hath bound. 
