In spring's own country, where the gardens blow, You faded, tender rose! For hours now past, Like butterflies departing, on you're cast The worms of memories to work you woe. (Adam Mickiewicz)

In spring's own country, where the gardens blow, You faded, tender rose! For hours now past, Like butterflies departing, on you're cast The worms of memories to work you woe.

Adam Mickiewicz

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blow butterflies cast country departing hours now past rose tender woe work

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