Elizabeth Stuart Phelps Ward


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Perhaps the bud lost from the loaded tree
The sweetest blossom of the May would be;

Or wildest song that summer could have heard
Is dumb within the throat of the dead bird.

The perfect statue that all men have sought
May in some crippled hand be hid, unwrought.

Which of our dearest dead betook his flight
Into the rose-red star that fell last night?

The words forever by thy lips unsaid
Had been the crown of life upon thy head.

The splendid sun of all my days might be
The love that I shall never give to thee.

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