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Março=> Poesia

Na décima noite de Março um poema de Yeats:

The Wheel

Through winter-time we call on spring,
And through the spring on summer call,
And when abounding hedges ring
Declare that winter's best of all;
And after that there's nothing good
Because the spring-time has not come_
Nor knowthat what disturbs our blood
Is but its longing for the thumb.