THE little white clouds are racing over the sky,
And the fields are strewn with the gold of the flower of March,
The daffodil breaks under foot, and the tasselled larch
Sways and swings as the thrush goes hurrying by.
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.....oh my gosh, I love the last line so much ★ the kingfisher flies like an arrow, and wounds the air
Unfortunately, the second half of this poem is missing... which is a shame...