There is a flower
Reposing on my table,
Kept by some fairy
Who had no want of it.
It is not a rose
As you might have fancied.
This wild beauty
Of the forest green,
Has no name
Neither pellucid nor decorous.
Yet its easy calm
Ruffles my sight
As I ponder why someone
Reckoned me;
For nothing especial
Ushers today;
And I pensively ruminate
Who the fairy could be.
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