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I met her in the garden where the poppies grow,
Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine;
And her cheeks were like roses, or blood dropped on snow;
Her pallid lips were red with Papal Spanish wine.
Lulled in these wild flowers, with dance and delight,
I took my opportunity and grasped her hand.
She then disclosed the eyelids of her second sight,
And prophesied that I’d forsake my native land.
Before I could protest, she put her mouth to mine,
And sucked the broken English from my Gaelic tongue.
She wound me in her briary arms of eglantine.
Two centuries have gone, yet she and I abide,
Like emblems of a rebel song no longer sung,
Or snowy blossoms drifting down the mountainside.