About halfway up the hill,
In a spot of winter sunshine,
Stands a hardy Daffodil,
Who somehow got its seasons
Crossed, and doesn't grow
In springtime, for reasons
Mysterious and unknown
It shares its beauty, all alone,
When most everything around
is cold and dull and browned,
Such a wondrous, holy, sight,
Blooming green, yellow, and white.
No comments:
Post a Comment