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70 THE PASSION-FLOWER. 
And there they kept, the pious monks, 
Within a garden small, 
All plants that had a healing power, 
All herbs medicinal. 
And thither came the sick, the maimed, 
The moonstruck and the blind, 
For holy flower, for wort of power, 
For charmed root and rind! 
—Oh, those old abbey-gardens 
With their devices rich, 
Their fountains, and green, solemn walks, 
And saint in many a niche! 
I would I could call back again 
Those gardens in their pride, 
And see slow walking up and down, 
The Abbot dignified. 
And the fat monk with sleepy eyes, 
Half dozing in his cell; 
And him, the poor lay-brother, 
That loved the flowers so well; 
