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Modern Love XLV: It Is the Season

 It is the season of the sweet wild rose, 
My Lady's emblem in the heart of me! 
So golden-crownèd shines she gloriously, 
And with that softest dream of blood she glows: 
Mild as an evening heaven round Hesper bright! 
I pluck the flower, and smell it, and revive 
The time when in her eyes I stood alive.
I seem to look upon it out of Night.
Here's Madam, stepping hastily.
Her whims Bid her demand the flower, which I let drop.
As I proceed, I feel her sharply stop, And crush it under heel with trembling limbs.
She joins me in a cat-like way, and talks Of company, and even condescends To utter laughing scandal of old friends.
These are the summer days, and these our walks.

by George Meredith
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