Читать книгу Poems, and The Spring of Joy - Mary Webb - Страница 19

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The winter sun that rises near the south

Looks coldly on my garden of cold clay;

Like some old dotard with a bitter mouth,

Shrugs his grey robe to his ears and creeps away.

Come down the mountains, April! with young eyes,

And roguish daisy-children trooping after,

Draw from the sullen clay red peonies,

Bring back the sun as a stripling full of laughter!