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TIME

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From this ploughed field the young sweet corn shall spring,
These frozen clods yield to the tender seed,
And pulsing Earth with all her myriad gifts
From winter’s paralyzing grip be freed.

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This rotting mold shall bring forth loveliness,
These leafless branches bloom in bridal white,
And where the moon now gleams on frost and snow
The briar rose shall scent the summer night.

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Then down these somber walks where you have kept
Your aching trysts with bitterness and pain
New joys shall spring and all old sorrows yield
Before the healing tide of time again.

~Author unknown

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