tars;
A sighing wind ran faintly white
Along the willows, and the cedar boughs
Laid their wide hands in stealthy peace across
The starry silence of their antique moss:
No sound save rushing air
Cold, yet all sweet with Spring,
And in thy mother's arms, couched weeping there,
Thou, lovely thing.
The Birthnight
Walter De La Mare
(1)
Poem topics: mother, peace, silence, spring, wind, sweet, white, wide, cold, save, sound, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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