The Seasons of her Year by Thomas Hardy

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I. WINTER is white on turf and tree, / And birds are fled; / But summer songsters pipe to me, / And petals spread, / For what I dreamt of secretly / His lips have said!

II. O 'tis a fine May morn, they say, / And blooms have blown; / But wild and wintry is my day, / My birds make moan; / For he who vowed leaves me to pay / Alone-alone!

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