Dark skies must clear, and when the clouds are past
One golden day redeems a weary year;
Patient I listen, sure that sweet at last
Will sound his voice of cheer.
Then vex me not with chiding. Let me be.
I must be glad and grateful to the end.
I grudge you not your cold and darkness,—me
The powers of light befriend.
—Celia Thaxter.
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