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THIS small least love of mine, which can but creep
Between the twisted stems of joy and pain,
Is warmed by sun and bathed by every rain :
Last night, transplanted to the fields of sleep,
It blossomed so I could not choose but weep,
Knowing the sweet, familiar scent again.
Mostly it grows unnoticed, fair, and fain
In depths of sunlit air its leaves to steep ;
But there are times when every fairer flower
Looks cold, unsympathetic, in my sight ;
Then am I glad to turn, in such an hour,
To this my blossom, neither red nor white,
Holding the fragrance of the last warm shower ;
But, gather it, it fades before the night.

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