Sir William Alexander
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The morn is cold. A whiteness newly-brought Lightly and loosely powders every place, The panes among yon trees that eastward face Flash rosy fire from the opposite dawning caught,-- As the face flashes with a splendid thought, As the heart flashes with a touch of grace When heaven's light comes on ways we cannot trace, Unsought, yet lovelier than we ever sought. In the blue northern sky is a pale moon, Through whose thin texture something doth appear Like the dark shadow of a branchy tree.-- Fit morning for the prayers of one like me, Whose life is in midwinter, and must soon Come to the shortest day of all my year!
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