Читать книгу Poems, and The Spring of Joy - Mary Webb - Страница 20

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Ah, hush! Tread softly through the rime,

For there will be a blackbird singing, or a thrush.

Like coloured beads the elm-buds flush:

All the trees dream of leaves and flowers and light.

And see! The northern bank is much more white

Than frosty grass, for now is snowdrop time.