No Newspapers
Mary Elizabeth Coleridge
Where, to me, is the loss—
Of the scenes they saw—of the sounds they heard;
A butterfly flits across,
Or a bird;
The moss is growing on the wall,
I heard the leaf of the poppy fall.
No posts
Where, to me, is the loss—
Of the scenes they saw—of the sounds they heard;
A butterfly flits across,
Or a bird;
The moss is growing on the wall,
I heard the leaf of the poppy fall.
No posts