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But in the balance wanting it never has been 
found; 
And when Sorrow’s lamp had shed, 
Its cold ray o’er my head, 
And Life’s best hopes seemed fled, 
Its blossoms still were blowing, with their richest 
perfume crowned. 
And now these priceless flowers, 
Nursed in some fairy’s bowers, 
To form this -wreath of ours, 
Will soon the blighting trial of absence undergo; 
Is it strange that I should mourn, 
When its stems apart are torn, 
And some afar are borne, 
To fill the air with fragrance, where other breezes 
blow ? 
But I feel thou ’It not forget 
The scenes in which we’ve met, 
And I say with less regret, 
