VII
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hy spirit is quenched not, albeit we behold not thy face in thecrown of the steep sky's arch,And the bold first buds of the whin wax golden, and witness ariseof the thorn and the larch:Wild April, enkindled to laughter and storm by the kiss of thewildest of winds that blow,Calls loud on his brother for witness; his hands that were ladenwith blossom are sprinkled with snow,And his lips breathe winter, and laugh, and relent; and the livewoods feel not the frost's flame parch;For the flame of the spring that consumes not but quickens is feltat the heart of the forest aglow,And the sparks that enkindled and fed it were strewn from the handsof the gods of the winds of March.
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