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AMID THE ROSES.


There is tropical warmth and languorous life
  Where the roses lie
  In a tempting drift
Of pink and red and golden light
Untouched as yet by the pruning knife.
And the still, warm life of the roses fair
  That whisper "Come,"
  With promises
Of sweet caresses, close and pure
Has a thorny whiff in the perfumed air.
There are thorns and love in the roses' bed,
  And Satan too
  Must linger there;
So Satan's wiles and the conscience stings,
Must now abide—the roses are dead.