Page:Felicia Hemans in The Winter's Wreath 1830.pdf/8

For the glory of the bloom
    That a flush around it shed,
And the Soul within, the rich perfume,
    Where were they?—fled, all fled!

Nought but the dim faint line
    To speak of vanished hours—
Memory! What are joys of thine?
    Shadows of buried flowers.

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