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Not because the garden’s prime 
Vanish’d with the summer-time; 
No, — if roses nigh at hand 
Woo’d me now with whisper bland, 
Or the lily, purest gem, 
Sought to form thy diadem, 
Still I would this chaplet twine 
Round that laughing brow of thine. 
Wherefore? Youthful maiden, try 
To resolve the mystery. 
Mark upon this lovely bough 
How in social beauty grow 
Flowers and fruit, a fairy throng, 
Fitting theme for poet’s song; 
Sure not brighter wreaths than this 
Graced the famed Hesperides. 
Yec a lovelier sight I know: 
(Ay, thou read’st my riddle now) 
’Tis, — when in the social bower 
Wisdom’s fruit, and youth’s fair flower, 
(Combination rare as sweet) 
On the self-same scion meet. 
Youthful maiden, I would see 
These rare graces meet in thee; 
