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1876–1944

V

Helen Hay Whitney

The apple-tree is white with snow, My heart is empty as the day; The white hours indolently go Graveward, because my love's away.

Months lag, then spring and love's return — Yet once again I seem to see, Flushed with delight, as kisses burn, White snow upon the apple-tree.

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V · Helen Hay Whitney · Poetry Cove