Gray days

On gray days poems will come. On days when quiet brooding hangs like a gray bird over the house. On gray days -- if you wait a soundless song will come and turn that time so dark with nameless sorrow or so lonely for the one who did not come into a day so silver-streaked that gray, grown glorious now no more shadows the house with wings of woe but silvers every brooding thing glimmers on cold candles till they gleam and glow. On gray days, if you wait the poems will come.

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