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Poem by Thomas MacDonagh In September The winds are in the wood again to-day, Not moaning as they moan among bare boughs In winter dark, nor baying as they bay When hunting in full moon, the spring to rouse; Nor as in summer, soft: the insistent rain Hisses the woe of my void life to me; And the winds jibe me for my anguish vain, Sibilant, like waters of the washing sea. Thomas MacDonagh Poem Theme: September Thomas MacDonagh's other poems:
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