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First Oriole

By Mary Roelofs Stott / April 9, 1982

A sad day of trembling gray Brushed against my window pane, Sighing of things left undone And I so uncertain sure When O! most I thought I knew. . . . Sudden! lightning on a twig, A sprig of fire slashed in black, And from the glitter, a note, Pure as joy's astonishment, For a singing in my heart, As the rain goes on and on.

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