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by Gordon Bottomley, 1917

A thrush is tapping a stone
With a snail-shell in its beak;
A small bird hangs from a cherry
Until the stem shall break.
No waking song has begun,
And yet birds chatter and hurry
And throng in the elm's gloom
Because an owl goes home.


Any corrections or public domain poems I should have here? Email me at poems (at) this domain.