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782

There is an arid Pleasure—
As different from Joy—
As Frost is different from Dew—
Like element—are they—

Yet one—rejoices Flowers—
And one—the Flowers abhor—
The finest Honey—curdled—
Is worthless—to the Bee—

Added: 30 Sep 2002 | Last Read: 7 Jun 2025 4:24 PM | Viewed: 6993 times

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