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Fifty Faggots

Rating: 2.7

There they stand, on their ends, the fifty fag gots
That once were underwood of hazel and ash
In Jenny Pink's copse. Now, by the hedge
Close packed, they make a thicket fancy alone
Can creep through with the mouse and wren. Next spring
A blackbird or robin will nest there,
Accustomed to them, thinking they will remain
Whatever is for ever to a bird:
This Spring it is too late; the swift has come.
'Twas a hot day for carrying them up:

Better they will never warm me, though they must
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COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Lar Darce 30 May 2018

surprisingly beautifully read

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