Fires of Driftwood by Isabel Ecclestone Mackay
page 10 of 107 (09%)
page 10 of 107 (09%)
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Last Spring THIS morning at the door I heard the Spring. Quickly I set it wide And, welcoming, "Come in, sweet Spring," I cried, "The winter ash, long dried, Waits but your breath to rise On phantom wing." A brown leaf shivered by, A soulless thing-- My heart in quick dismay Forgot to sing-- Twisted and grim it lay, Kin to the ghost-ash gray, Dead, dead--strange herald this Of jocund Spring! I spurned it from the door. I longed that Spring Should come with song and glow And rush of wing, Not this, not this!--But O Dead leaf, a year ago |
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