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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!