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The wind in its weakest fear
Keeps the heart to a rose very near,
Frightens the storm with a spear,
Closes the mind’s eye to hide the autumnal tear.
The windy garden blows the Cupid’s shore
Upon which I murmur and roar;
Seize a love I walk and run for—
I cry, laugh and ask for more.
The shady flower comes and goes,
And this is the first year my land love sows,
Pleasant and fruitful the sunshine show:
Surrounding my country doth the Spring vow.
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Writer Profile
Arun Budhathoki
I simply love literature. I love to scribble poetry.
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