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I sing of brooks, of blossoms, birds, and bowers, 
Of April, May, of June and July flowers; 
I sing of youth, of love too, and I write 
How roses first came red, and lilies white: 
I write of groves and twilight, and I sing 
The court of Mab, and of the Fairie King. 
Herrick. 
There’s wit in every flower, if you can gather it. 
Shirelev. 
