Where ocean spray doth kiss the ancient stone,
A burst of crimson in the waste alone,
No hand did plant it, nor a gardener tend,
By heaven's grace its beauty it hath shown.
Think not its life a tale of weary pain,
It drinks the sun and revels in the rain,
A fleeting joy, like a rose that blooms to die,
E'er yet another moment turns to gray and vain.
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