To a Child With Violets
No one would think these brittle woods,
This world of old leaves, stalks and sand
Held so much color as you see
Clutched tight in one hot hand.
No one would here expect to find
Where stands the ghost of last year's death,
Such fragrance as the violets give
With every indrawn breath.
This world of old leaves, stalks and sand
Held so much color as you see
Clutched tight in one hot hand.
No one would here expect to find
Where stands the ghost of last year's death,
Such fragrance as the violets give
With every indrawn breath.
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