John Chipman Farrar

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The scarlet trumpet flowers are gay
And yet they never seem to play,
They never trumpet up the dawn
Nor blow retreat across the lawn.

But oh, to-day I heard a strain,
A happy, martial, quick refrain,
As down across the garden grass
I saw the marching flowers pass:

Gaudy phlox and flaunting rose,
Stiff and straight and on their toes,
And, blaring from the garden wall,
The trumpet flower led them all.

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