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I.—THE OASIS.
Think not that I am hapless, ye who read
The pensive numbers of my fervent lyre:
That in the heart is sown some upas-seed,
Is not to prove all healthful germs expire;
That in a garden are some withered bowers,
Crisped buds and yellow leaves bestrew the ground,
Is not to prove it hath nor herbs nor flowers.
Think not because I’ve stood on every round