  THERE’s never a rose upon the bush, And never a bud on any tree; In wood and field nor hint nor sign Of one green thing for you of me. Come in, come in, sweet love of mine, And let the bitter weather be. Coated with ice the garden wall, The river reeds are stark and still; The wind goes plunging to the sea, And last week’s flakes the hollows fill. Come in, come in, sweet love, to me, And let the year blow as it will. |
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