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As light a flush As hardly tints the blossom of the quince Would mar their charm of stainless maidenhood. 'Sweeter to me, she said, 'this garden rose Deep-hued and many-folded sweeter still The wild-wood hyacinth and the bloom of May. Prince, we have ridd'n before among the flowers In those fair days not all as cool as these, Tho' season-earlier. Art thou sad? or sick?