A bluebird comes tenderly to alight
And turns to the wind to unruffle 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 isn't blue,
But he wouldn't advise a thing to blossom.
Two Tramps in Mudtime
Robert Frost
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