Page:Last poems (IA lastpoems00hou).pdf/49

XXII

The sloe was lost in flower,
 The April elm was dim;
That was the lover's hour,
 The hour for lies and him.

If thorns are all the bower,
 If north winds freeze the fir,
Why, 'tis another's hour,
 The hour for truth and her.

❦

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