Now the bright crocus flames, and now The slim narcissus takes the rain, And, straying o'er the mountain's brow, The daffodilies bud again. The thousand blossoms wax and wane On wold, and heath, and fragrant bough, But fairer than the flowers art thou, Than any growth of hill or plain. Ye gardens, cast your leafy crown, That my Love's feet may tread it down, Like lilies on the lilies set: My Love, whose lips are softer far Than drowsy poppy petals are, And sweeter than the violet!
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