Bleak January's clouds coil thundering. Cold naked branches toss in the wind.

In ashen desolation the fields lie

and a grey chill is over everything.

Fleecy tufts that stiff resist the wind

last Fall were Goldenrod.

Now I know no touch that cheers and strengthens,

no eyes that heal and quicken,

no quiet in my heart.

Under the wind that drives the black clouds lower

a thrush cries softly hidden in the trees.

Listen! He, too, is cold and lonely now.

Now, let me remember

the wave-lapped granite rocks,

Summer clouds white across the sea,

your hand in mine.

Not all these things are lost

though Winter dull them . . .

katydids singing in blown trees at night,

an hour beneath a cedar, a face against the stars,

distant darkened hills,

and kisses I could trust.

Now, let me be confident.

The Sun is turning North and Spring will come.

Let me be quiet, now,

quiet as the waiting Earth.

I hear the thrush again.

He's singing louder.

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