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A Sensitive Plant in a garden grew, And the young winds fed it with silver dew, And it opened its fan-like leaves to the light, And clothed them beneath the kisses of night. - Percy Bysshe Shelley, The Sensitive Plant (pt. I) For the Sensitive Plant has no bright flower; Radiance and odour are not its dower; It loves, even like Love, its deep heart is full, It desires what it has not, the beautiful. - Percy Bysshe Shelley, The Sensitive Plant (pt. I)
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