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 THE WARMTH of life is quenched with bitter frost;
Upon the lonely road a child limps by
Skirting the frozen pools: our way is lost:
 Our hearts sink utterly.
But from the snow-patched moorland chill and drear, Lifting our eyes beyond the spirëd height, With white-fire lips apart the dawn breathes clear Its soundless hymn of light.
Out of the vast the voice of one replies Whose words are clouds and stars and night and day, When for the light the anguished spirit cries Deep in its house of clay.

by Peter Huchel
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