Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
A January Tale
All pines are gothic in the winter woods
Cold pillars in a temple grim and cold
Their needles softly hissing in the wind
That shivers from the north and makes a boy cold
Do not be found among them after dark
Or else you will never be found at all
The dark is falling now, falling fast and cold
Which way is home – oh, run! The trees are cold!
Across the barbed-wire fence, torn trousers, run! -
All pines are gothic in the winter woods
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