Sunday, April 27, 2008

Poem 27

Spring Quiet

Gone were but the Winter,
Come were but the Spring,
I would go to a covert
Where the birds sing.

Where in the whitethorn
Singeth a thrush,
And robin sings
In the holly-bush.

Full of fresh scents,
Are the budding boughs
Arching high over
A cool green house.

Full of sweet scents
And whispering air
Which sayeth softly:
"We spread no snare;

"Here dwell in safety,
Here dwell alone,
With a clear stream
And a mossy stone.

"Here the sun shineth
Most shadily;
Here is heard an echo
Of the far sea,
Though far off it be."

~Christina Rossetti

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