Bayard Taylor

(1825-1878 / Kennett Square, Pennsylvania)


Nightly the hoar-frost freezes
The young grass of the field,
Nor yet have blander breezes
The buds of the oak unsealed;
Not yet pours out the vine
His airy resinous wine;
But over the southern slope
The wands of the peach-tree first
Into rosy beauty burst;

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