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Poem by Jones Very
The bush that has most briers and bitter fruit Waits till the frost has turned its green leaves red, Its sweetened berries will thy palate suit, And thou mayst find e'en there a homely bread; Upon the hills of Salem scattered wide, Their yellow blossoms gain the eye in Spring; And straggling e'en upon the turnpike's side, Their ripened branches to your hand they bring; I've plucked them oft in boyhood's early hour, That then I gave such name, and thought it true; But now I know that other fruit as sour, Grows on what now thou callst Me and You; Yet wilt thou wait the autumn that I see, Will sweeter taste than these red berries be.
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