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It is
blue-butterfly day here in spring,
And with these
sky-flakes down in flurry on flurry
There is more
unmixed color on the wing
Than flowers will show for
days unless they hurry.
But these are flowers that
fly and all but sing:
And now from having ridden out
desire
They lie closed over in the wind and cling
Where wheels have freshly sliced the April mire.
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