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miracle is here—

What vision of forgotten things and dear?

The grass—how green it lies in coverts deep!

The pussy-willows—sentinels of the wood—

How slim, how fair, each 'neath its downy snood,

They stand, new-waked from sleep!

And the enchantment cold

That seemed as death? Could it no longer hold

Against the glow that warmed the breast of Earth?