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Show OUTCROWTH, Kat Tutman Osgood, In Hnrper's Bazar, Art so forlorn, Sad Brier, because the rose is dead Be comforted : Knowest thou not some future morn Another flower shall crown Instead Thy drooping head? Canst thou relieve That chance alone did so endow Thy random bough? Or shall the steadfast year deceive, And bnd and blossom disavow And fall thee now? Dost not divine Thou art the root of thy fair rose And her sweet shows? Her beauty is not hers, but thine; From thine own life the color flows Wherewith she glows. Take heart and hope 1 Her glory Is the growth of thee So shalt thou see All beauty that Is in her scope, As long as thou thyself shalt ba Thou hast in fee, |