Fortitude
The trees are standing, straight and bold:
Stripped for their wrestle with the cold.
The clouds are flying, torn and gray:
The restless birds have flown away.
The storm-swept soul has cast aside
The vestments of her summer pride.
Come, ice and snow; come shrieking blast;
The soul, deep-rooted, standeth fast,
And bears, through Winter's buffeting,
The secret promise of the Spring.
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