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A setback in New England

We should not have driven North in spring toward these somber ridges leaving behind all awakening of buds along the hedges on our street where, framed in hope, our windows faced willows in season. Here, we find bleakness. It's harder to cope with loss after triumph, though season tell us: Trust sun once more! Even these mountains shall warm! Waiting is no longer than ever before, deeper our source of alarm. As branches point black to a sullen sky, we beseech the desolate scene for a single willow in yellow, and try projecting New England in green

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