Posted by: W. E. Poplaski | February 9, 2009


by Lizette Woodworth Reese (1856 – 1935).




An apple orchard smells like wine;  

    A succory flower is blue;  

Until Grief touched these eyes of mine,  

    Such things I never knew.  


And now indeed I know so plain                          5

    Why one would like to cry  

When spouts are full of April rain—  

    Such lonely folk go by!  


So wise, so wise—that my tears fall  

    Each breaking of the dawn;                            10

That I do long to tell you all—  

    But you are dead and gone.



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