Posted by: Marzia Ornofoli
The little white clouds are racing over the sky,
And the fields are strewn with the gold of the flower of March;
And the plane to the pine-tree is whispering some tale of love
Till it rustles with laughter and tosses its mantle of green,
And the gloom of the wych-elm's hollow is lit with the iris sheen
Of the burnished rainbow throat and the silver breast of a dove.

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Posted by: Marzia Ornofoli

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