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A Saffron Face How is it that one daffodil blooms, a single rogue, before the rest, a lemony blossom against impure snow? In an icy cold wintry setting, a spirit rises and soars, devoid approval of the rabble, but, beneath the frozen turf, the knowing pack sets the course. The timid yellow flower soon wilts taking with it the quiet pure voice of gentleness and honor. Now, none will be quite so fair or so brilliant ever again. |
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