Blooming beside the brook, Their petals gleam Like burnished copper. One wonders how long ago Their forebears took A notion to leave some small Dooryard garden, perhaps Settling along the lane, Then straying farther afield. They seem as much at home As the brook between whose banks Time comes and goes in serene Equivalence. They reign A little while, each bloom Lasting a single day, Enough to spur some worn Traveler on his way.
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