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Show THE WRAITH OF SPRING. By Ada Foster Murray. Strange is this late similitude of spring That silvery lanes and fading woodlands show, And fair the mimicry of blossoming Where April strayed a few bright moons ago. That was the opening," this the closing flower; Yet, through illusion, is the meaning one, And autumn's beauty seems a crescent dower, J Shining through veils so delicately spun. Down vacant ways far may November swerve From the starred pastures, with young flocks at play, But in her heart she holds with deep reserve A memory and a promise of the May. New York Sun. |