|How long, o Lord, how long the Winter's woes? Is it to purge the world of sin and stain that in its winding-sheet it stands again for penance, pining in the shrouded snows? Methinks, I do remember of the rose to have heard fable in some far domain of old fantastic dreams and fancies vain; but what in sooth it was, god only knows! Was ever aught but winter in the lands? Was ever snow-time past and springtime come, To bless the brown earth with her flowerful hands? Well nigh the cuckoo's call, the wild bee's hum Have we forgot. Yet, through the chill snow-cope, the kindly crocus blooms and bids us hope.
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