The Greeting of the Roses

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WE had been long in mountain snow,
In valleys bleak, and broad, and bare,
Where only moss and willows grow,
And no bird wings the silent air.
And so, when on our downward way  
Wild roses met us, we were glad:
They were so girlish fair, so gay,
It seemed the sun had made them mad.

© Hamlin Garland