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VITA NUOVA
What miracle is here—
What vision of forgotten things and dear?
The grass—how green it lies in coverts deep!
The pussy-willows—sentinels of the wood—
How slim, how fair, each 'neath its downy snood,
They stand, new-waked from sleep!
And the enchantment cold
That seemed as death? Could it no longer hold
Against the glow that warmed the breast of Earth?
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