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Show APRIL. (Gottfried Hult in April Century.) What time the prairie still lay bleak and frore, I sauntered forth; like some old pal-impest pal-impest That waits new writing for the old suppressed. Such seemed the dreary fields I wandered wan-dered o'er A worn, age-yellowed parchment, little more. Fragments of words whose thought could not be guessed; And not a single spear of grass to attest That here would yet be lavished a new-lore. new-lore. Today upon the selfsame fields, I stroll. The selfsame? Nay; the mighty vellum vel-lum hath been Illuminated with Its summer green. As long as spring is spring and soul is soul, I ask not why earth, sky, anil all between, Have not been tossed aside, a crumpled crum-pled scroll. |