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Thy names are like sweet flowers that grow Within a garden where I go, Sometimes at dawn, to see each one Life its head proudly in the sun; Sometimes at night, When only by the fragrant air, I know them there. And none are grieved or think I slight Their worth, if closest to my breast, This one I take which holds within its own Each single fragrance of the rest,-- My friend, my friend! And as I loved it first alone, So shall I love it to the end, For none were half so dear were it not best.