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.

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