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Sara Teasdale - February
Work rating: Medium

They spoke of him I love 
With cruel words and gay; 
My lips kept silent guard 
On all I could not say.

I heard, and down the street 
The lonely trees in the square 
Stood in the winter wind 
Patient and bare.

I heard . . . oh voiceless trees 
Under the wind, I knew 
The eager terrible spring 
Hidden in you.
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