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The Coming Of Springing of Spring

Wild wicked winter

Your harsh face I hate.

The North wind blows in

Trembling, tormented, tough.

Without growth or goodness,

Loveliness or love,

Till the white feast of Brigid

And the resurrection of joy.

Then comes the South wind,

Promise of heat for my limbs

Life leaping in me,

Awakening of the blood.

Winter, you wastrel,

Old age is your season.

Welcome and a thousand more to you.

O Spring of my youth.

Translated from the Irish by

Ulick O'Connor