_The mottled moth at eventide Beats glimmering wings against the pane; The slow, sweet lily opens wide, White in the dusk like some dim stain; The garden dreams on every side And breathes faint scents of rain. Among the flowering stocks they stand: A crimson rose is in his hand._ Herein the dearness of her is; The thirty perfect days of June Made one, in maiden loveliness Were not more sweet to clasp and kiss, With love not more in tune.…
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