February by Ralph Hodgson
A few tossed thrushes saveThat carolled less than criedAgainst the dying raveAnd moan that never died,No bird sang then; no thorn,No tree was green besideThem only never shorn —The few…
Read moreA few tossed thrushes saveThat carolled less than criedAgainst the dying raveAnd moan that never died,No bird sang then; no thorn,No tree was green besideThem only never shorn —The few…
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