Poems (Mary Coleridge)/Poem 67

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LXVII THE LADY OF TREES
By a lake below the mountain Hangs the birch, as if, in glee,The lake had flung the moon a fountain, She had turned it to a tree.
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Therefore do her dull leaves glimmer Like the waves that mothered them.Therefore flits a moony shimmer Always round her curvèd stem.

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