Tis May and yet the March flower Dandelion
Is still in bloom among the Emerald grass
Shining like guineas with the suns warm eye on
We almost think they are gold as we pass
Or fallen stars on a green sea of grass
The[y] shine in fields on waste grounds near the town
They closed like painters brush when even was
At length they turn to nothing else but down
While the rude winds blow of[f] each shadowy crown
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