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WITHOUT Thy face, my sweet rose-bloom,

I love not rose nor flower-strewn bed;

A straw-heap’s worth a rose-leaf couch,

If o’er it love his fragrance shed.

The splendid shams of earth-born wealth

May charm two days and charm no more,

And night-cups leave, when morn-tide comes,

The head all dull, the eyes all sore.

Then prize that tryst where friend meets friend,

For there thou’lt find the true-love bowers,

Where rose greets rose with heart-warm smile

And Spring spreads forth her loveliest flowers.