February
R
Ralph Hodgson
0
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A few tossed thrushes save
That carolled less than cried
Against the dying rave
And moan that never died,
No bird sang then; no thorn,
No tree was green beside
Them only never shorn -
The few by all the winds
And chill mutations born
Of Winter's many minds
Abused and whipt in vain -
Swarth yew and ivy kinds
And iron breeds germane.
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