No, the bean-vines soon withered that once used to wave,
But some beans had been gathered, the last that hung on
And a soup was distilled in a kettle, that gave
All the fragrance of summer when summer was gone.
Thus memory draws from delight, ere it dies,
An essence that breathes of it awfully hard;
And thus good to my taste as ’twas then to my eyes,
Is that bower of bean-vines in Benjamin’s yard.
Poems and Parodies, By Phœbe Carey, Boston, U. S., 1854.
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