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The Blossom

Rating: 4.2

ON a day--alack the day!--
Love, whose month is ever May,
Spied a blossom passing fair
Playing in the wanton air:
Through the velvet leaves the wind
All unseen 'gan passage find;
That the lover, sick to death,
Wish'd himself the heaven's breath.
Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow;
Air, would I might triumph so!

But, alack, my hand is sworn
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COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Shaun Cronick 28 March 2020

True love always blossoms above dead romance.

1 0 Reply
Fantone Mdala 22 May 2019

spectacular piece of art

1 0 Reply
Ratnakar Mandlik 12 March 2016

An awesome poem penned in a superb style. Thanks for sharing here.

2 0 Reply
Brian Jani 26 April 2014

Awesome I like this poem, check mine out 

2 3 Reply
* Sunprincess * 18 October 2012

wow love this one so picturesque and love is for May..beautiful metaphor.. :)

4 0 Reply