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And what of thee, O sullen heart—
 * Still busy with thy grieving?

Hast thou no little leaves to start,
 * Thy barrenness retrieving?

Nay, leave thy chamber, come abroad, See how the apathetic clod Awakens at the touch of God,
 * Spring's sacrament receiving.

Wilt thou not answer to the call,
 * Thy selfish grief forsaking,

And trust the Love behind it all,
 * Life's promises partaking?

The frailest little flower that blows A higher dream of Heaven knows Than he who dully grieving goes
 * When round him Spring is breaking.