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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 secretly 
 His 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 pay 

by Thomas Hardy
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