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Weak with nice sense, the chaste Mimosa stands,
From each rude touch withdraws her timid hands
Oft as light clouds o'erpass the summer's glade,
Alarm'd she trembles at the moving shade,
And feels, alive through all her tender form,
The whisper'd murmurs of the gathering storm;
Shuts her sweet eyelids to approaching night,
And hails with freshen'd charms the rosy light.
- The Language of Flowers