Song The Eleventh

Thomas Aird

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His wild penumbra dimly seen
Through shattered glooms and scuds of sleety sheen,
Bold from yonder Norland height
Winter blows his windy horn.

Of sunny drops is April born,—
Of sunny tremblings of the drops of light.
Type of the Love Supreme, yon infinite blue
Takes rounded shape from you,
Embracing shape for you,—
From you, O earth, for you.

Scorn not the lowly patient power:
Old Winter's root
Is bud and shoot,
Leaf and flower,
And—lo! the fruit:
Heaven is the Harvest of our humblest hour.

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