Song, Richard Dixon

The feathers of the willow

Are half of them grown yellow

Above the swelling stream:

And ragged are the bushes, 

And rusty now the rushes,

And wild the clouded gleam.

The thistle now is older, 

His stalk begins to moulder,

His head is white as snow:

The branches all are barer,

The linnet's song is rarer,

The robin pipeth now.

Richard Watson Dixon (1833-1900)

Gedicht gevonden in A nature poem for every day of the year (2018)


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