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The
Book of the Native
by
Charles G.D. Roberts
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The
Stillness of the Frost
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Out
of the frost-white wood comes winnowing through
No wing; no homely call
or cry is heard.
Even the hope of life seems
far deferred.
The hard hills ache beneath
their spectral hue.
A dove-gray cloud, tender as tears or dew, |
5 |
From
one lone hearth exhaling, hangs unstirred,
Like the poised ghost of
some unnamed great bird
In the ineffable pallor
of the blue.
Such, I must think, even at the dawn of Time,
Was thy white hush, O world,
when thou lay’st cold, |
10 |
Unwaked
to love, new from the Maker’s word,
And the spheres, watching, stilled their high accord,
To marvel at perfection
in thy mould,
The grace of thine austerity
sublime! |
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