Just when each bed was big with bloom, And as prophetic of perfume, When spring, with her bright horoscope, Was sweet as an unuttered hope; Just when the last star flickered out, And twilight, like a soul in doubt, Hovered between the dark and dawn, And day lay waiting to be born; Just when the gray and dewy air Grew sacred as an unvoiced prayer, And somewhere through the dusk she heard The stirring of a nested bird,— Four angels glorified the place: Wan Pain unveiled her awful face; Joy, soaring, sang; Love, brooding, smiled; Peace laid upon her breast a child.
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