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I went to look for roses When snow was on the ground, Alas, a wither'd thorn-bush Was all the flowers I found! I thought of summer-blossoms Alight with dews of morn, And down I sate me weeping Beside the barren thorn. Out spake a grey-hair'd neighbour,— “O madness! not to know The time of living roses Is not the time of snow.” Fie on such foolish comfort! It never dried one tear; I am weeping for my roses Because they are not here.
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