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Stephen Howard
Poems
Dec 2020
Hope
Comes the morning, thrush will call,
from brambled hedge, or garden wall.
Sing he must, and sing he will,
though even to a silent hill.
And be there but echoes all along;
he will forget the day, but not his song.
Written by
Stephen Howard
72/M/Entremundos
(72/M/Entremundos)
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Amanda Kay Burke
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