There grew pied wind-flowers and violets, 
Daisies, those pearled Arcturi of the earth, 
The constellated flower that never sets; 
Faint oxlips; tender bluebells, at whose birth 
The sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wets
Like a child, half in tenderness and mirth— 
Its mother’s face with Heaven’s collected tears, 
When the low wind, its playmate’s voice, it hears. 

Percy Bysshe Shelley “The Question”

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