Page:The witch-maid & other verses (1914).djvu/25

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"SUMER IS ICUMEN IN"


"SUMER IS ICUMEN IN"


The beautiful old simple songs
  That make us laugh and cry,
That sing of dying loveliness
  In words that cannot die:

Of how the singer's love was sweet
  Or how she was unkind,
And how her lips were red that now
  Are dust upon the wind:
 
Of how the fields were gold in May
  With daffodils a-row,
And all the birds made holiday
  Six hundred years ago:—

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