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Where'er blooms the daffodil on hill so sunny bright,
      that dimples there with yellow kiss
      of golden pure delight,
Whoe'er knows the pussywill' with catkins soft and gray,
      that touches cheek like kittens feet
      when tousling at play.
Whene'er time, of swift intent, doth dally at its game,
      to know the pleasure of a charm,
      the texture of a name,
then too, shall I come to the hill, to stand beside my love,
      and give to her the pussywills'
      with softness of the dove,
and like the time who in its path has tarried for a time,
      so shall I, with gratitude,
      in gentle sweet sublime.

Davey Lee George


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