Blankets of leaves blown like drifts of snow Piled high against the modest hellebores, The waking garden drowsy from long sleep Reminds me of my life's unfinished chores. What miracle of earth and sky appears To greet these eyes but feasts of daffodils That gladden one who long has lived with tears. Now every nerve within the being thrills To beauty on this frigid winter morn. Once more a page in my book of life is turned As I look upon the beauty of the lake, A part of me still breathes the Ashram air, But all is Hers and all She will remake.
Poems Undated (1727)
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