A bluebird comes tenderly up to alight
And turns to the wind to unruffled a plume,
His song so pitched as not to excite
A single flower as yet to bloom.
It is snowing a flake; and he half knew
Winter was only playing possum.
Except in color he wasn't blue,
But he wouldn't advise a thing to blossom.
Two Tramps in Mud Time
Robert Frost
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