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And mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eyes. - John Keats (1), Ode to a Nightingale I saw the sweetest flower wild nature yields, A fresh-blown musk-rose; 'twas the first that threw Its sweets upon the summer. - John Keats (1), To a Friend who Sent some Roses
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