When the hounds of spring are on winter's traces, The mother of months in meadow or plain Fill the shadows and windy places With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain.
When the hounds of spring are on winter's traces, The mother of months in meadow or plain Fill the shadows and windy places With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain.
I will go back to the great sweet mother, Mother and lover of men, the sea. I will go down to her, I and no other, Close with her, kiss her and mix her with me.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories