WE watched in the dear Home garden
Our tenderest flower that grew:
Never a budling rarer
The sun of the ages knew!
And we said, “When our leaves shall wither,
Our petals shall drop away,
The grace of this perfect blossom
Shall brighten our own decay.” .
Never the dews shall nourish,
Never the tender rain;
Never the sun’s warm kisses
Shall crimson thy lips again!
O heart of our hearts, May-blossom,
Hope of our lessening day,
The bloom and the grace and the fragrance,
Are passed with thy breath away!
(Ina Donna Coolbrith)
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