I leant upon a coppice gate
When Frost was spectre-grey,
And Winter's dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
The tangled vinestems scored the sky
Hardy, Thomas
Our price: List price:
As of: January 08th, 2009 01:06:45 PM
Author: Karl Klimsch
Fear death?--to feel the fog in my throat,
The mist in my face,
When the snows begin, and the blasts denote
I am nearing the place,
The power of Browning, Robert