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- Come, take hands, you are not such
As this will weary overmuch.
Sit we down, and hear rehearse
The marvels of the sweet-souled verse
- Poem With a copy of "The Faithful Shepherdess"
- You know the wild flowers suit your hair:
Place hands full of the purple bloom
Of loosestrife, glad of such soft doom,
And tender-toned narcissus there
- Poem Fate and the Little Flowers
- Your father bears an iron reed
Filled with a flame that makes us bleed;
Your kindly mother loves to tear
Feathers and skin to deck her hair.
- Poem A song for Edmund Blunden