The Seasons Of Her Year
IWinter is white on turf and tree, And birds are fled;But summer songsters pipe to me, And petals spread,For what I dreamt of secretly His lips have said!IIO 'tis a fine May morn, they say, And blooms have blown;But wild and wintry is my day, My birds make moan;For he who vowed leaves me to pay Alone--alone!(The...
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