The fragile flowers, in their beauty,
…Are never seen as vain.
In breezes soft, they stand, their duty:
…That we, might pleasure, gain.
The sweet young thing who is a cutie,
…And stands long at a pane,
Stays pure. But shift might make her snooty:
…The mirror makes one vain.
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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2016.
The Bard on the Hill 