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A crocus says it better even than Hopkins, Two syllables of purple, yellow, white To say one syllable every poet since Chaucer Has tried to hum into the flower, Delight. Crocus has it all over us, even Shakespeare. A single pink standing up to cold earth - Pink because the chilly air has rouged her? Or is she blushing the first blush of birth? Ah, pretty blusher, no one, not even Wordsworth, Can say so blithely what your petals sing, Not even Summers, no, not even Winters, Nor Frost nor Snow, that titled syllable, Spring.

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