By Yvonne Osborne
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Stealing a winter wind she stepped,
Slow in the lingering dawn,
Stretched her pale limbs by the morning stream,
Where the rushes bend and the waters keen
And winter relics mourn.
Weaving like gossamer thread her wares,
With the promise of fairest bloom,
Whispered among the woodland eaves,
Where the dank earth lay and winter grieves
In the shadowy afternoon.
In the sleepy eve, the twilight dell,
In the forest glades of May,
She trailed the banks of the crystal rills,
Like drops of snow through the daffodills,
Where dusty grasses sway.
On golden fields, on scarlet hill,
Her skies on blue bird wing,
She sang within bright waterfalls,
O’er petal paths where the curlew calls,
To celebrate her King.
And as the moonlight’s softer beam,
Hushed where fern and flower stirred,
On upward flight she turned her face,
In joyous radiance and grace,
And heaven’s praises heard.
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