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77 after the snows I’m not in love with The spring trees, limbs of the pear and apple Still thin, and the first shy buds Barely there, pink and pale— Victoriana of the wan nudes. Late April makes the bluebell rise, And the hyacinth, a sweet Cluster of curls Reeling the cool air, though it cannot Stir my sullen blood. But you, when the ice slides From thick to thaw, and the noon sun Softens all the torments of this earth, you Bring me back by one touch Of your forgiving hand. ...

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