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Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди)) The Seasons of Her Year I 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! II O ’tis a fine May morn, they say, And blooms have blown; But wild and wintry is my day, My song-birds moan; For he who vowed leaves me to pay Alone – alone! Thomas Hardy's other poems:
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