Why the Spring Is Late by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

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To Miss Eva Russell.

The spring time is deaf to our pleading, / The meadows are brown as can be. / The hilltops are bleak and unlovely, / No thrush sits and sings on the tree. / I hear many practical people / Explain why the spring loiters so, / But, dear one, they all are mistaken: / The true reason I alone know.

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