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letra de march - frederick septimus kelly

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upon the wintry trees
a few dead leaves are hung;
they rattle in the breeze
the mournful boughs among

as in december old
the earth is dark and drear;
no newer buds unfold —
yet spring, the spring is here

and in the grass there grows
a fragrant violet;
no other flower knows
no one hath told them yet

nor yet the bees forsake
the threshold of their home;
no voice hath bid them wake
hath criеd “the spring is come!”

the sky is dark and low
unswеpt by swallow wings
but soft the south doth blow
sudden the blackbird sings

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