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A Winter's Morning

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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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