The hedge-rows cast a shallow shade
Upon the frozen grass,
But skies at evening song are soft,
And comes the Candlemas.
Each day a little later now
Lingers the westering sun;
Far out of sight the miracles
Of April are begun.
O barren bough! O frozen field!
Hopeless ye wait no more.
Life keeps her dearest promises—
The Spring is at the door!
Arthur Ketchum
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