Night jasmine cannot bloom
in this cold place;
Without the street is wet
and weird with snow;
The cold nude trees are
tossing to and fro;
Too stormy is the night for your fond face;
For your low voice too loud
the wind's mad roar.
But oh, your scent is
here-jasmines that grow
Luxuriant, clustered round
your cottage door!
Written by Claude McKay (1891-1948)
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