The Woods (Hattie Howard Poems)
I love the woods when the magic hand Of Spring, as if sweeping the keys Of a wornout instrument, touches the earth; When ...
I love the woods when the magic hand Of Spring, as if sweeping the keys Of a wornout instrument, touches the earth; When ...
Where I can see him all day long And hear his wild, spontaneous song, Before my window in his cage, A blithe canary ...
I seem to see the old tree stand, Its sturdy, giant form A spectacle remembered, and A pilgrim-shrine for all the land Before it ...
As one long struggling to be free, O suffering isle! we look to thee In sympathy and deep desire That thy fair borders ...
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