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Even that fatal flower was kept 
By this fond heart of mine ; 
’Twas the last gift I ever had 
From that dear hand of thine. 
And now, mine Edith — we will still 
In sport use floral lore. 
But never. Love, in sober truth. 
Trust such frail einblems more. 
And oft again when loit’ring late 
In garden or in grove. 
We’ll wreath our brows with woodbine sweet. 
That fragi’ant ' tie of Love; ’ 
And when, with orange blossoms crowned. 
My Edith walks a bride. 
Her pathway shall be strewn with flowers. 
In all their rainbow pride.” 
And so they talked—these lovers twain — 
And pleased themselves fidl well — 
But few, methinks, will wish that I 
Their talk again should tell. 
For though, no doubt, each pretty word 
To them was music sweet, 
I ne’er yet found a third who thought 
Such converse any treat. 
