D. TO B.
Into the green vase of my youthOne summer day you thrust a rose,And with the rose some seeds of truth.Now from my vase the rose tree growsIn burnished green with spheres of gold,—And thorns are hidden here and thereFor that free lance who cries "Behold!"The careless one who robs the fair,Who needs much pricking to beware.And now so tall my strong tree growsAlike in fragrance and in truth,Because—because you thrust a roseInto the green vase of my youth.
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