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To spring belongs the violet, and the blown Spice of the roses let the summer own. Grant me this favor, Muse--all else withhold-- That I may not write verse when I am old.
And yet I pray you, Muse, delay the time! Be not too ready to deny me rhyme; And when the hour strikes, as it must, dear Muse, I beg you very gently break the news.
Thomas Bailey Aldrich
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Read poems about / on: summer, spring, time, rose
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