The Witness

A poem by Fay Inchfawn

The Master of the Garden said;
"Who, now the Earth seems cold and dead,
Will by his fearless witnessing
Hold men's hearts for the tardy spring?"

"Not yet. I am but half awake,"
All drowsily the Primrose spake.
And fast the sleeping Daffodils
Had folded up their golden frills.

"Indeed," the frail Anemone
Said softly, "'tis too cold for me."
Wood Hyacinths, all deeply set,
Replied: "No ice has melted yet."

When suddenly, with smile so bright,
Up sprang a Winter Aconite,
And to the Master joyfully
She cried: "I will the witness be."

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