Shadows (Howe)/A Treasure House

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A TREASURE HOUSE
THE poet's song, the painter's art,
Are richest when they tell but part;
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We hear the sweetest player, and thrill
With dreams of music sweeter still;

The spring's first brightness is so dear
Because we feel the summer near;—

Shall I not love my love the more
For keeping wealths of love in store?

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