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    Le Jardin

    by Oscar Wilde
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    The lily's withered chalice falls
    Around its rod of dusty gold,
    And from the beech-trees on the wold
    The last wood-pigeon coos and calls.

    The gaudy leonine sunflower
    Hangs black and barren on its stalk,
    And down the windy garden walk
    The dead leaves scatter,--hour by hour.

    Pale privet-petals white as milk
    Are blown into a snowy mass:
    The roses lie upon the grass
    Like little shreds of crimson silk.
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