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by Hilda Conkling

Oh shell-pink that you wear,
Oh pure white bosom!
Like a fan all spread,
Like a sail ready to go over lapping seas,
Sometimes birds flutter in your branches,
But you have not many friends.
Your friends are flowers,
Your comrades are trees,
But birds seem shy of you,
And the little insects.
I know not what your thoughts may be
When the wind blows your flower-buds
Single or in clusters,
Oh beautiful magnolia
Up against the gray stern sky!
Your color lightens the grayness
And purples the rain.

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