Frowning at Emily
Soft and pure fell the snow,
Pure, soft, the new lamb lay.
February in the field,
Sun's heat far away,
Wave's cry sad and strange,
Lamb's cry weak and wild,
No buds in the bleak thorn hedge:
Spring is but a tiny child.
Pure, soft, the new lamb lay.
February in the field,
Sun's heat far away,
Wave's cry sad and strange,
Lamb's cry weak and wild,
No buds in the bleak thorn hedge:
Spring is but a tiny child.
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