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The sun is waning wan and old;
The days are brief and gray and cold;
We shiver in their garment's fold.


A homeless dog, with dismal bark,
Bemoaneth twilight chill and dark,
The shrouded hills lie white and stark.


Wild sweep the snows about the clod,
The stubble soughs above the sod;
The skies are blasting. Where is God?


A flood of light, a deep-drawn breath,
That through the being shuddereth,
With rapturous coming back from death.


A flash of song, a glint of wings,
The starting of a thousand springs,
A thousand runnel murmurings:


Life thrills in the awakened clod,
The cowslips' breath--the crocus' nod,
The stir of nestlings--here is God.