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timeWhite branches, white vines,
Twisting limbs like broken spines,
Redding spots like frozen blood,
Enamel floor on bracken mud,
Pearly puff on still top pines;
The needles as an emerald brine,
The dapper sun upon his seat,
Shines bright & clear & without heat,
Shows all as if a darkling jewel,
Creation’s shining silver pool,
Filled with shadows & with light,
A winter morn is quite a sight,
Yet one must sigh, and one must say,
That all of this shall pass away.
But as it goes, one just might see,
A slight grey glimpse of eternity.

This grey is an odding, twilight thing,
With fairies air and silent wing
That in betwixt the silent shade,
Descends upon a hidden glade,
A silent pool upon a hill,
Under the leaves and limbs so still,
A frozen cloud upon the height,
Or passing through dim starlight,
That works the wonder frenzy till,
Ones mind is turning like a mill,
And mossy banks upon the brook,
Or the lines inside a battered book,
Or firelight bright inside the dark,
With sky filled high with golden spark,
Show that simply, straightly, bent,
All of life’s a sacrament.

This passing of the good and grey,
Is a thing that’s here to stay,
Till Time at least, upon his post,
Retires and leaves, without a boast
And the Author puts down His pen,
Fills the inkwell, checks once again,
And all is as He thought it should,
Mirrored in infinite, kingly Good,
And though men sigh upon the night,
Of beauties passing, firm and bright,
Of sweetness, glory, and honor lost,
And resistance melting like morning frost,
Comfort shall come in a peculiar way:
That all of this was child’s play,
For He shall sigh (and without yawn),
The grey today will turn to dawn.

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