Yet in our ashen cold is fire yreken.
The sun is set, and in his latest beams Yon little cloud of ashen gray and gold, Slowly upon the amber air unrolled, The falling mantle of the Prophet seems.Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Now fades the last streak of snow, Now burgeons every maze of quick About the flowering squares, and thick By ashen roots the violets blow.Tennyson
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