Thursday, March 31, 2016

March poem

Over the lip of the lawn -- what spills?
Thrust from the thick of the thicket  -- what thrills?

Yellow and tall, with petals small --
O wilt thou be  my all-in-all ?

Later, come time,  other blossoms may bloom
in their turn,  to their measure of praise and acclaim.

But for now, ‘tis thou --
thou art our flower, now !

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