WOODLAND PATHS 



was spreading over the zenith, and 

 through it the gentle spring mists heard 

 resound the crack of doom, the voice of 

 the north wind itself, made up of echoes 

 of crashing ice floes out of Hudson's Bay 

 and the Arctic. Then the spring mists 

 fled to earth again, but had no strength 

 left to enter in. Instead, they lay there 

 dead, covering all things a half -inch deep 

 with soft bodies of purest white, and 

 we looked forth in the morning and said 

 that there had been a robin-snow. 



It is a pity that those gentle, innocent 

 gray-blue spring mists should die, even 

 to be lovely in death as they are, but it 

 is their way of getting back home. In 

 the morning the repentant sun came and 

 dissolved the white, silent ones into gentle 

 tears, dayborn dew that slipped down 

 among the grass roots and laid moist 



cheeks close to daisy and violet buds as 

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