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Poem by Coventry Patmore
The crocus, while the days are dark, Unfolds its saffron sheen; At April's touch the crudest bark Discovers gems of green. Then sleep the seasons, full of might; While slowly swells the pod And rounds the peach, and in the night The mushroom bursts the sod. The winter falls; the frozen rut Is bound with silver bars; The snowdrift heaps against the hut, And night is pierced with stars.
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