One must forgive the moaning earth its chill of bone and snap of icy breath, lingering;
Misting morning's watery sunlight fingers, pale and palsied,
When, springing forth, burst the wild petals of the first daffodil,
Scoffing at its own comings and goings,
Drinking in the promised dregs of drip and drizzle,
Mocking its own shock of colour, and
Shooting skyward
In a day.
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