A leaf's lines, a stem's tints,Make in icy places, prints;
Trace of a foot, of a hooked claw,Settled to stone since the last thaw;
Minnows bent with waveringAlong a pool's ice-edges cling.
All the beautiful, braveColors that curled in the wave—Flooding ground purple and crimsoning air—Are battered and rigid and bare.
Earth, bled of her sap,Too stiff to unfoldThe sprouted moldIn the cleft of her lap;
While circles woven near nowHang cold broodings on her brow.
Still, then crackling—once more still—Icy feet come up the hill.
Pushing back the granite frightMen sing, morning and sing night!
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