In search of story

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Connections: April 7.17

Oh, nippéd bud,

of thee I sing,

poor little cringing

misshapen thing!

Frost’s cruel fang

hast bit thy head

and left the blood

a darkened red.

Thy brothers and sisters

in sad disarray

look equally puny,


How now, spring?

What mischief this?

whither the photo

for our synthesis?