FOUR SONGS OF FOUR SEASONS.
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But wind unsettles
Her poor last petals;
Had she but wings, and she would not die.
viii.
Come close and cover
Her white face over,
And forth again
Ere sunset glances
On foam that dances,
Through lowering lances
Of bright white rain;
And make your playtime
Of winter's daytime,
As if the Maytime
Were here to sing;
As if the snowballs
Were soft like blowballs,
Blown in a mist from the stalk in the spring.
