Quote #40
A Sensitive Plant in a garden grew, And the young winds fed it with silver dew, And it opened its fan-like leaves to the light. And closed them beneath the kisses of Night.
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- One word is too often profaned For me to profane it; One feeling too falsely disdained For thee to disdain it.
- A lovely lady, garmented in light From her own beauty.
- The desire of the moth for the star, Of the night for the morrow, The devotion to something afar From the sphere of our sorrow.