The Thrush
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HEN Winter's ahead,What can you read in NovemberThat you read in AprilWhen Winter's dead? I hear the thrush, and I seeHim alone at the end of the laneNear the bare poplar's tip,Singing continuously. Is it more that you knowThan that, even as in April,So in November,Winter is gone that must go? Or is all your loreNot to call November November,And April April,And Winter Winter--no more? But I know the months all,And their sweet names, April,May and June and October,As you call and call I must rememberWhat died into AprilAnd consider what will be bornOf a fair November; And April I love for whatIt was born of, and NovemberFor what it will die in,What they are and what they are not, While you love what is kind,What you can sing inAnd love and forget inAll that's ahead and behind.
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