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A Winter's Morning
In abundant white, sleeps the road.
On either side, rest clouds of cold.
In icy slumber hides the sun;
Warmth of mercy untouchable.
To tree boughs bare, clings the ice-
As witch’s nails, or dripping tails.
Boulders drab and black-
Congealed in an icy grasp
Of cold and glacial wrap.
In the wind, her heartless whiffs
Of flurry whites all fast and light;
O’er houses hushed in flawless waves of white.
Through windows closed like skies above;
Softly dance the flames.
Through the hall, scurry by-
With fresher wood, the knaves.
For the bubbling song of the tea in pot,
And the splutter of hot broth;
As grayish ghouls – out they snake,
From the ashen chimney block.
Through the roads stiff with cold,
And dangerously, with weakened hold:
Slips and stumbles with rags in clad-
Poor John, poor lad.
With noses red, and throats all parched-
In delicate clutch, little crab apples,
For little Martha in tow;
With faces crisp, and softened eyes,
And quivering chatter with the snow.
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