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The lad brings dainty offerings with small but ready hand: At dawn of spring he crowns me with a lavish daisy-strand, From summer's earliest harvest, while still the stalk is green, He wreathes my brow with chaplets; he fills me baskets clean With golden pansies, poppies, with apples ripe and gourds, The first rich blushing clusters of grapes for me he hoards.
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