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<h3>TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN.</h3>
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Thou blossom bright with autumn dew,<br/>
And coloured with the heaven's own blue,<br/>
That openest when the quiet light<br/>
Succeeds the keen and frosty night.<br/><br/>
Thou comest not when violets lean<br/>
O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen,<br/>
Or columbines, in purple dressed,<br/>
Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest.<br/><br/>
Thou waitest late and com'st alone,<br/>
When woods are bare and birds are flown,<br/>
And frosts and shortening days portend<br/>
The aged year is near his end.<br/><br/>
Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye<br/>
Look through its fringes to the sky,<br/>
Blue—blue—as if that sky let fall<br/>
A flower from its cerulean wall.<br/><br/>
I would that thus, when I shall see<br/>
The hour of death draw near to me,<br/>
Hope, blossoming within my heart,<br/>
May look to heaven as I depart.</p>
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