Queen Ann's Lace
The August fields all fallow now.
The sweet grasses lay long a bed.
The posies taken the pastours’ bowe.
Brash breezes brush Queen Ann’s fair head.
Black butterflies crest crown instead.
Tufts of purple clover hold court,
‘neath a spread of pristine comfort.
Honey beis are swarmin’ in delight.
Sparrows’sweet song the morn transport.
Summers’ day passes in tae night.
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