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The Broken Winged Fairy

- a sonnet -

My fairy, blown from branch where blackbird sings,
The statue I had painted into life:
On the hard path she lies, with broken wings,
No sooner living than she falls to strife.
Carefully I'd painted her grey dress
In garden green, and russet-orange where
Her petalled collar gives her neck caress,
And golden leaves into her golden hair.
Then her grey skin I'd tinted subtle blues
And living pinks to make an English rose;
Where knees and elbows rub, brushed deeper hues,
And red where sunlight through the fingers glows.
Thus touched with life, then hurt, she lives through this:
The fairy, broken winged, still blows a kiss.

The Broken Winged Fairy Gets Better

To you of tender years, be not distressed
Nor shed a tear, nor cry yourself to sleep;
My fairy's sufferings are all redressed:
She smiles on you, and would not have you weep.
Though sad indeed was my poor fairy's plight,
Her wings are mended well, and she took flight.