Grief may have thought it was grief.
Care may have thought it was care.
They were welcome to their belief,
The overimportant pair.
 
No, it took all the snows that clung
To the low roof over his bed,
Beginning when he was young,
To induce the one snow on his head.
 
But whenever the roof camme white
The head in the dark below
Was a shade less the color of night,
A shade more the color of snow.
 
Grief may have thought it was grief.
Care may have thought it was care.
But neither one was the thief
Of his raven color of hair.

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Diana Flint
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