by George Meredith (1828 - 1909)

Language: English 
They have no song, the sedges dry,
  And still they sing.
It is within my breast they sing,
  As I pass by.
Within my breast they touch a string,
  They wake a sigh.
There is but sound of sedges dry;
  In me they sing.

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Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]

This text was added to the website: 2009-01-13
Line count: 8
Word count: 44