Blossom
Blossom
She
is coming, my own, my sweet;
Wore
it ever so airy a tread,
My
heart would hear her and beat,
Were
it earth in an earthy bed;
My
dust would hear her and beat;
Had
I lain for a century dead;
Would
start and tremble under her feet
And blossom in purple and red.
Short and sweet poem, good rhyme scheme
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