The Urban Poet

When reeks the faetid symplocarp
(Or cabbage, frankly known as skunk )
And when the frogs, with pipe and harp,
Begin to whistle and to plunk,

I think of yellow marigolds
(They must be yellow, by the name)
And of the bloodroot that unfolds
As bright (presumably?) as flame.

Hepaticas, so frail and — — ,
And — — — — — — anemones
That on this — — — — covered bank
Are trembling in the gentle breeze.

The saxifrage, clear — — in hue
(Oh, is it yellow, red or pink?)
The violet's undoubted blue,
The Dutchman's Breeches (mauve, I think?)

The lucid willow by the stream
With — — — — catkins of soft fur;
The mountain laurel's — — gleam,
All these are lovely, I aver.

Dear burdock, blossom of my heart,
Upon your petals glad I look;
(I do not know these things apart,
And got their names out of a book.)

Oh, flowery friends of field and wood,
What pleasure your existence gives....
And honestly, I wish I could
Supply the proper adjectives!
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