“Bee to the blossom, moth to the flame; Each to his passion; what's in a name?”
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On the king's gate the moss grew gray; The king came not. They call'd him dead; And made his eldest son, one day, Slave in his father's stead.
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O sweet, delusive Noon, Which the morning climbs to find, O moment sped too soon, And morning left behind.
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Motherhood is priced Of God, at price no man may dare To lessen or misunderstand.
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