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Won't you help support DayPoems? The Spring of the YearBy Allan Cunningham1784-1842GONE were but the winter cold, And gone were but the snow, I could sleep in the wild woods Where primroses blow. Cold 's the snow at my head, And cold at my feet; And the finger of death 's at my e'en, Closing them to sleep. Let none tell my father Or my mother so dear,-- I'll meet them both in heaven At the spring of the year. DayPoems Poem No. 543 Comment on DayPoems? If you are like us, you have strong feelings about poetry, and about each poem you read. Let it all out! Comment on this poem, any poem, DayPoems, other poetry places or the art of poetry at DayPoems Feedback. Won't you help support DayPoems? Click here to learn more about how you can keep DayPoems on the Web . . . Copyright The DayPoems web site, www.daypoems.net, is copyright 2001-2005 by Timothy K. Bovee. All rights reserved. The authors of poetry and other material appearing on DayPoems retain full rights to their work. Any requests for publication in other venues must be negotiated separately with the authors. The editor of DayPoems will gladly assist in putting interested parties in contact with the authors. |
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