Classic Poem

1

Push that rough maple bush aside,
Its bark is all ridgy — and naked beside;
But it stands in the way of the flowers that engross
My eye — in bloom, by its stump of green moss:
How green is the moss, and how purple the flower,
I'll not pluck thee, sweet violets in thy own sheltered bower!

2

The first sunny days, they were nought but green leaves,
When the bush, threw another bush, on the dead leaves;
So perfect, and true, and such shadows I love,
That it seemed an ink-drawing, of the maple above:
The moss it looks greener, the flowers are so blue
While the gold sun of spring looks delightfully through.

3

There's no flowers more red, than the flower of the larch,
And none are so sweet as the violets of march;
In their dead leafy beds, how intensely dark blue,
By the moss maple stump, where the sunlight looks through:
Those sweet flowers that look up, in their beautiful bloom,
Will ne'er live to see the bright maple leaves come.