Spring in War-Time
Now the sprinkled blackthorn snow Lies along the loverís lane Where last year we used to go- Where we shall not go again. In the hedge the buds are new, By our wood the violets peer- Just like last yearís violets too, But they have no scent this year. Every bird has heart to sing Of its nest, warmed by its breast; We had heart to sing last spring, But we never built our nest. Presently red roses blown Will make all the garden gay.. Not yet have the daisies grown On your clay.
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