The Snowdrop
There was a crowd, I recall, sometime somewhere
close to the edge of spring's fresh green burgeoned heath
and cold winter’s forest dark, I met you there.
A fresh blossom virgin white, lonely, beneath
the canopy of ancient oak, whose cold shade
could not becloud your so captivating shine
made conspicuous amid the purple glade
of bluebells, a snowdrop, singular, divine.
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