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Rich meanings of the prophet-Spring adorn,|
Unseen, this colourless sky of folded showers,
And folded winds; no blossom in the bowers;
A poet’s face asleep in this grey morn.
Now in the midst of the old world forlorn|
A mystic child is set in these still hours.
I keep this time, even before the flowers,
Sacred to all the young and the unborn:
To all the miles and miles of unsprung wheat,|
And to the Spring waiting beyond the portal,
And to the future of my own young art,
And, among all these things, to you, my sweet,|
My friend, to your calm face and the immortal
Child tarrying all your life-time in your heart.
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Lane Core Jr. (email@example.com)
Created April 11, 2001; not revised.