Classic Poem

Where grows the flower, and what's its name,
That blooms in winter and summer the same?
The language of which some say is true,
Some say is false; now what say you?

Pray sing not of florals that wither and fade
When crimson and gold on the woodlands are laid,
And Autumn unfurls on the deep mountain-side
His banners rich-woven and brilliantly dyed.
One flower, and one only, earth's frost never nips
On hill-side or valley—the sweet two-lips.

In fairest of gardens, in nooks growing wild,
In cold Arctic climes where the rose never smiled,
Where bright waters flow, where soft breezes blow,
In lands that are wrapped in perpetual snow,
They bloom in rich beauty, for sunlight or shade
Despoils not their sweetness, nor makes them to fade;
And, furthermore, reader, this also is true—
Whenever they're pressed they blossom anew.