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Category: Poems of Love Lost


They stood at the garden gate.
     By the lifting of a lid
She might have read her fate
     In a little thing he did.

He plucked a beautiful flower;
     Tore it away from its place
On the side of the blooming bower;
     And held it against his face.

Drank in its beauty and bloom,
     In the midst of his idle talk;
Then cast it down to the gloom
     And dust of the garden walk.

Ay, trod it under his foot,
     As it lay in his pathway there;
Then spurned it away with his boot,
     Because it bad ceased to be fair.

Ah! the maiden might have read
     The doom of her young life then;
But she looked in his eyes instead,
     And thought him the king of men.

She looked in his eyes and blushed,
     She hid in his strong arms' fold;
And the tale of the flower, crushed
     And spurned, was once more told.

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