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This feeling.

This feeling I try to avoid.

Sometimes gets the best of me,
I'll admit.

But once I've come back
From the place that calms me,

Everything is fine.

At least til next time.
There is no boon in Spring,
In the way the birds sing,
Or in flowers that bloom.



The season of treason,
And Pregnant affliction
The season of rebirth.



Winter, there’s a beauty,
In weather’s agony,
And all is a ghost white.



Knowing the sun will rise,
Rise over cold demise,
That is total beauty.



Though Baldur sings in spring,
I will hear no such thing,
Instead I’ll watch her rise.



Rise over barren fields
That the cold, white snow yields
Watch and witness beauty.
Hunters, where does Hope nest?
Not in the half-oped breast,
Nor the young rose,
Nor April sunrise—those
With a quick wing she brushes,
The wide world through,
Greets with the throat of thrushes,
Fades from as fast as dew.

But, would you spy her sleeping,
Cradled warm,
Look in the breast of weeping,
The tree stript by storm;
But, would you bind her fast,
Yours at last,
Bed-mate and lover,
Gain the last headland bare
That the cold tides cover,
There may you capture her, there,
Where the sea gives to the ground
Only the drift of the drowned.
Yet, if she slips you, once found,
Push to her uttermost lair
In the low house of despair.
There will she watch by your head,
Sing to you till you be dead,
Then, with your child in her breast,
In another heart build a new nest.
Haughty Sphinx, whose amber eyes
Hold the secrets of the skies,
As thou ripplest in thy grace,
Round the chairs and chimney-place,
Scorn on thy patrician face:
Rise not harsh, nor use thy claws
On the hand that gives applause—
Good-will only doth abide
In these lines at Christmastide!
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