William Morris among Roses

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  • William Morris among Roses

    April

    O fair midspring, besung so oft and oft,
    How can I praise thy lovliness enow?
    Thy sun that burns not, and thy breezes soft,
    That o’er the blossom of the orchard blow,
    The thousand things that ‘neath the young leaves grow,
    The hopes and chances of the growing year,
    Winter forgotten long and the summer near.

    William Morris

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