The lady's hair was dark
It shone in the sun
How pretty the lady
The lady sang like a dove
Her voice rose and fell
I envy the lady
The lady makes her mark
She has it seem like fun
What a sweet lady
The lady is a figure
Rose above the rest
A poor lark's form
YOU ARE READING
March of the Flowers
PoetryOne by one, we march. We march. Our branches tired. Our leaves are wearied. March of the Flowers is a collection of poetry
