From a fungus-seed! [Pg 27] [Pg 27] IV i IV IV i Out of the clear how shrewdly blows The North-West wind! Free as he goes, how brave he shows, The sun seems blind! The shadows fleet upon the grass Where the kestrels hover— What leagues of sorrow they must pass Before they shroud my lover! Half-naked now, confronting cold, The tall trees shiver, Each with its pool of pallid gold Draining down to the river. 'Tis now when fret of winter wet
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