Grow, grow, thou little tree,
His body at the roots of thee;
Since last year's loveliness in death
The living beauty nourisheth.
Bloom, bloom, thou little tree,
Thy roots around the heart of me;
Thou canst not blow too white and fair
From all the sweetness hidden there.
Die, die, thou little tree,
And be as all sweet things must be;
Deep where thy petals drift I, too,
Would rest the changing seasons through.
Agamede's Song
Arthur Upson
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Poem topics: beauty, death, heart, hidden, sweet, white, deep, year, body, bloom, tree, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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