By John Masefield It’s a warm wind, the west wind, full of birds’ cries;I never hear the west wind but tears are in my eyes.For …
Thrush
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The Darkling Thrush
By Thomas Hardy I leant upon a coppice gateWhen Frost was spectre-grey,And Winter’s dregs made desolateThe weakening eye of day. The tangled bine-stems scored the …