<h3 id="Spring_will_Come">Spring will Come</h3>
<p>SPRING will come to help me: she’ll be back again,<br/>
Back with the soft sun, the sun I knew before.<br/>
She will wear her green gown, the emerald gown she wore<br/>
When the white-faced windflowers blew along the lane.</p>
<p>Spring will come to help me: When her waking sigh<br/>
Drifts across my sore heart all the pain will go.<br/>
How shall hearts be aching when larks are flying low,<br/>
Low across the fields of camas bluer than the sky?</p>
<p>I’ve a tryst with Spring here—maybe they’ll be few<br/>
Now the world grows older—and shall I delay<br/>
Just because a Winter has stolen joy away?<br/>
What cares Spring for old joys, all her joys are new.</p>
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<p>Maybe there’ll be singing in my sorrow yet—<br/>
I have heard of such things—but, if there be not,<br/>
Still there’ll be the green pool in the pasture lot,<br/>
All a-trail with willow fingers, delicate and wet.</p>
<p>Winter is a passing thing and Spring is always gay;<br/>
If she, too, be passing she does not weep to know it.<br/>
Time she takes to quicken seed but never time to grow it—<br/>
Naught she cares for harvest that lies so far away.</p>
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