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Young Love was such a torment
I hid from him my face,
And scorned, and drove him from me
In bitter, deep disgrace.
He fled my primrose garden,
His heart was wounded sore--
I heard him moan, in undertone:
"I will return no more!"


But Love his vow repented,
And came, reluctant back;
I think somebody led him
Along the primrose track;
His face was at my lattice,
His cheek was white and thin;
He spoke in such a pleading way
I could but let him in.


Now Love is such a comfort
I would not have him go
For all the shining treasures
That Fortune can bestow.
And, since his sweet returning,
I bless, with grateful sense,
The day he came, the way he came,
The hand that led him hence.