Since you would be in Britain in the spring,
The states must suffer. Here we only have
The toughest daffodils, the snowdrops who,
More thew than delicacy, make a swift
And wan appearance; there, there is the show
Of countless flower, gaudy garden, green
Of glib variety. Here we do brown
In many ways. It does not tempt you, here,
Since you would be in Britain in the spring.
Remember us, who cannot tell the weed
From scrawny flower when we try to pluck
The memory of you. We cannot grow
What will not bloom. We cannot fertilize
The misplaced and misplanted; but we find,
Whatever we may look upon, the face
And color and soft scent of the Welsh rose.
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