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A Poem to the World

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Thy world, with all thy beauteous wonder,
Thy world, with all thy treasure told not,
Thy world, methinks thy greatest plunder,
Is in thine season with all cold, naught hot.
Whence snow wilt fallest most gentle and soft,
Or come thundering down through thy clouds,
As if it was thine most wild horses racing towards loft,
While thy makest noises to rival fire loud.
And thy sun wilt shine most fair and odd,
Ice shall cover all lakes and fog shall consume,
Sight. Wilt thine be also? Whither art thee gone?,
Whither art thee in sun? Wither art thee in moon?
Thy world, with all thy beauteous wonder,
Thy world with all thy treasure told not,
Thy world, methinks thy greatest plunder,
Is in thine ability to hide with naught.



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