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FANTASIA
Once, in a garden quite secluded,
Over which the sunbeams brooded,
By the breath of roses haunted.
Where the hollyhocks were planted,
Reigned a swarm of butterflies.
All the place was their dominion,
Sporting there on snowy pinion;
Underneath the summer skies;
For they had no thought of sorrow,
Knew they got the way to borrow
Trouble from a dim surmise.
Sooth, the rose was their pavilion,
Where they danced a weird cotillon,
And the tulip's rich vermilion
Served for royal draperies;
And the great blue garden-spiders
Were their coachmen and outriders,
Just according to their size.
All the winds were sweet with clover,
And the bees hummed everywhere,
While the nightingale sang over
Every eve his love-lorn air;
Never were there wingèd mortals
Happier than these butterflies,
Once they burst their silken portals
Into this warm paradise.
And they spoke unto each other—
"All this pleasant world is ours.
Straight descended through our mother
All these fountains, all these flowers,
All these dew-delighted grasses,
Over which the sunlight passes,
Over which the twilight lowers."

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