SPRING AND WINTER
There's nought like spring
When the first travail of the drowsy earth
Stirs the warm pools, and brings green leaves to birth;
Child-leaves that ever prattle to the trees
Of how the breezes played:—no storm know these,
No weary age, nor death: yea, spring is best.
But winter comes
And with the ancient healing of her ways
The broken leaves in quiet graves she lays,
While o'er the earth a spotless, solemn shroud
Spreads wide. Then she waits patient, with head bowed,
Sure they will rise again:—nay, that is best.
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