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There's a fairy flower that grows
In the corner of my heart,
And the fragrance that it spills
Is the sorcery of art.

I may give it little care,
Neither water it nor prune,
Yet it suddenly will blow
Glorious beneat the moon.

I may tend it night and day,
Taking thought to make it bloom;
Yet my efforts all will fail
To avert the touch of doom.

When it dies, my little flower,
You may take my life as well;
Though I live a hundred years,
I shall have no more to tell.