In Retrospect
If I had plucked a humble weed,
Instead of a shining flower,
I never might have known the need
Of you this silent hour.
But who could tell that rose-flames fade,
When summer's spell is done.
Or that a leaf turns cold as jade,
When winter's web is spun?
Instead of a shining flower,
I never might have known the need
Of you this silent hour.
But who could tell that rose-flames fade,
When summer's spell is done.
Or that a leaf turns cold as jade,
When winter's web is spun?
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