Few are the flowers from the one garden--
Bitter the berries it boasts in their stead--
All early-growing and earlier falling
Or plucked up promptly, put to the side,
Pressed between pages and preserved thus,
Gathered with gold by greedy hands
And looked upon little, lingering yet
In a chest one may choose, chief of its treasures,
No fortune to fight over or to make foes.
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