Poetry
... l3outrU. A IJ T U AI N. TrIE bud of Spring is softly seen Full bursting through the icy sheen That Winter left upon the green- Its last departing tear; But, oh! the bough of russet brown, Unbent to Winter's coming frown, Where gentle airs blow leaflets down, To me is far more denil. I love the shadow onl the path, The moonbeams on the olden rtath; To me the Auituimin ever hath A magic of its ...