Some are fit for a maiden's wrist, Silver and blue as the mountain mist, Some are flushed like the buds that dream On the tranquil brow of a woodland stream, Some are aglow with the bloom that cleaves To the limpid glory of new-born leaves.
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Some are fit for a maiden's wrist, Silver and blue as the mountain mist, Some are flushed like the buds that dream On the tranquil brow of a woodland stream, Some are aglow with the bloom that cleaves To the limpid glory of new-born leaves.
explain this
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