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Tho' my destiny be Fustian—
Hers be damask fine—
Tho' she wear a silver apron—
I, a less divine—
Still, my little Gypsy being
I would far prefer,
Still, my little sunburnt bosom
To her Rosier,
For, when Frosts, their punctual fingers
On her forehead lay,
You and I, and Dr. Holland,
Bloom Eternally!
Roses of a steadfast summer
In a steadfast land,
Where no Autumn lifts her pencil—
And no Reapers stand!
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