Better
The air is still grey,
The buds are still cold;
The sun sets early
In a pool of dazzly gold.
But my Mamma got up today and fastened on her grown,
And on the sheltered terraces went walking up and down.
Violets blue, violets white,
We found one of each;
She touched with her fingers
The buds on the peach;
A cold-stalked snow-drop I put into her hand,
And we were both more glad than we could say, or understand.
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