To free the frozen rivers of the heart and seek in some small way to pay the debt of winter to the silent thrush and naked trees. Is this enough to make us brave? Enough a cause for venturing alone upon the imitation of an April sun? Small light we are. And many naked trees. Yet, can we ever see the winter wood - remembering how grey boughs have bloomed, been clothed in green, how thrushes come to sing again and streams are warmed and filled - ever pass it by, and never yearn to try to give it life? I will shine.