The Seasons of Her Year
Winter is white on turf and tree,And birds are fled;But summer songsters pipe to me,And petals spread,For what I dreamt of secretlyHis lips have said!
O ’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 payAlone—alone!
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