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Poem by Florence Earle Coates
Full slow to part with her best gifts is Fate; The choicest fruitage comes not with the spring, But still for summer's mellowing touch must wait,Ч For storms and tears, which season'd excellence bring; And Love doth fix his joyfullest estate In hearts that have been hushed 'neath Sorrow's brooding wing. Youth sues to Fame: coldly she answers, "Toil!" He sighs for Nature's treasures: with reserve Responds the goddess, "Woo them from the soil." Then fervently he cries, "Thee will I serve,Ч Thee only, blissful Love!" With proud recoil The heavenly boy replies, "To serve me well, deserve!"
Florence Earle Coates
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