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Flowers preach to us if we will hear: The rose saith in the dewy morn: “ I am most fair; yet all my loveliness is bom upon a thorn.” ' The poppy saith amid the corn: "Let but my scarlet head appear And I am held in scorn; Yet juice of subtle virtue lies Within my cup of curious dyes.” The lil ies say: "Behold how we Preach without words, of purity.” The violets whisper from the shade
Which their own leaves have made: “Men scent our fragrance on the air; Yet take no heed Of humble Iessons we would read.” But not alone the fairest flowers; The merest grass Along the roadside where we pass, Lichen and moss and sturdy weed, Tell of His love who sends the dew,
The rain and sunshine too, To nourish one small seed.
—Christina Georgina Rossetti
OCTOBER, 1946
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