in the season that the roses
In the
season that the roses
many a
fine leaf do display,
one does
curse the host of joyless
whose
wrath waxes every day,
who from
hatred love would slay
and would
harm love’s faithful servants.
God preserve
us from such perverts!
Such
folk there’s no point decrying,
since
their ire will bring them woe,
for they
lurk there always spying,
laying bird-traps
under snow.
But the thrush
by then is flown.
Their
efforts are in vain, love teaches,
as they reach
for pears in beeches.
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