The Pansy

A poem:

When the canopies of oaks strong
And maples noble whisper along,
In Pollacked piles collect dicarded
Exhaling summer sun and youth unguarded.

When gentle hands travail with rake
Yet still the earth does not forsake
Nature’s goal and sacred duty
To reflect her Gardener’s beauty.

Nodding heads, white, purple, yellow
Laughing faces, joyful fellow.
Locked in coolly pensive thought
Hardy pansy, forget-me-not.

Against the cold, she stands defiant,
With grace and fashion, winter’s giant.
Shrugs off frost and icy dew,
Promise of a world anew.

I do not think I shall ever see
A flower so fair as the dear pansy.
While Spring is fresh and Summer enchanting,
Wise gardeners know, “Fall is for planting.”

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