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February THE trees stand brown against the gray, The shivering gray of field and sky; The mists wrapt round the dying day The shroud poor days wear as they die: Poor day, die soon, who lived in vain, Who could not bring my Love again! Down in the garden breezes cold Dead rustling stalks blow chill between; Only, above the sodden mould, The wallflower wears his heartless green As though still reigned the rose-crowned year And summer and my Love were here. The mists creep close about the house, The empty house, all still and chill; The desolate and trembling boughs Scratch at the dripping window sill: Poor day lies drowned in floods of rain, And ghosts knock at the window pane. Edith Nesbit's other poems: Poems of another poets with the same name (Стихотворения других поэтов с таким же названием): Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 2318 |
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