The Frost has not yet
lifted his eyes from off the fields,
The forests still stand
meek and mute—all leafless are their bowers;
And yet methinks I feel
the earth already thrill and throb
Unsteadily and softly
with the springing of the flowers.
The traces of chill,
gloomy tears have not yet dried away,
The song of grief and
suffering has not died upon the air,
Yet in my heart there
swells again, sweet as the breath of spring,
The music of a joyous
hope, a dream most glad and fair.
G. Galin
translated by Alice
Stone Blackwell
(Picture: Decorative panel, Odilon Redon)
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