Can you tell the dead-heads
From the still unopened buds
Guess the grasses from the weeds
Or feel what the crocus needs
Or search the clammy woods
For where the blood-root feeds
On what the naked maples bleed
Just before they drop their seeds
Out of all the catalogues you've read
Can you assemble in your head
A flood of color in a bed
A summer ascending from the dead
Will you be satisfied to find
The last of the asters burning red
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