The Seasons Of Her Year

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!

by Thomas Hardy

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