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Thy names are like sweet flowers that grow
Within a garden where I go,
Sometimes at dawn, to see each one
Life its head proudly in the sun;
Sometimes at night,
When only by the fragrant air,
I know them there.
And none are grieved or think I slight
Their worth, if closest to my breast,
This one I take which holds within its own
Each single fragrance of the rest,—
My friend, my friend!
And as I loved it first alone,
So shall I love it to the end,
For none were half so dear were it not best.