Gray is the sky,
Yet no gray I see;
The wind has a sad cry,
Yet not sad to me;
Summer dies by the dull fires
Of the last roadside flowers,
But in my heart is April
And the cool feet of showers.
O blessed thief
Who has stolen away
The woe from the wind,
The drab from the gray!
O sweet translator
Of every word of grief
Into the warmth of joy
And strong belief!
Frail are your hands
For so strong a part,
Yet you have conquered
My unconquerable heart.
You have done, O so swiftly,
What the gods failed to do:
You have made the hills strong again
And the stars true.
