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FLOWERS IN THE EAST WIND
PITFUL, tender, sweet,
With the dumb, bound woe,
With the stems that stoop, and the leaves that droop-
Why should they suffer so ?
Bitterness hasteth, fleet,
'Tis the south wind waits ;
While the fragrance dies, and the dead bud lies
Close at our garden gates.
Oh, for a little space
Where a child might tread,
Where a flower might grow into beauty, so
'Crowning the storm-bent head.
