The Flower

Over the ridge at last
There stood the sea, like a far blue tower
That held the sun, a great bell swung aloft
Under the hollow sky.
In a moment
Clang, I should hear its golden uproar,
Clang, I should feel the world shaking—

But the sun against the tall Pacific
Does not shine and triumph in my memory of that day
As do the leaf-shaped magenta petals
Of that flower you stole for me
From a roadside bougainvillea.

by Grace Hazard Conkling

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