Transplanted

First print poem Love X, 10
J poem 180 | Fr poem 177

As if some little Arctic flower,
Upon the polar hem,
Went wandering down the latitudes,
Until it puzzled came
To continents of summer,
To firmaments of sun,
To strange, bright crowds of flowers,
And birds of foreign tongue!

I say, as if this little flower
To Eden, wandered in —
What then? Why, nothing,
Only, your inference therefrom!

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