Snow noiseless sifts
Ere night, an icy shroud, which morning's rays
Will idly shine upon and slowly melt...
Bare are the places where the sweet flowers dwelt.
What joy sufficient hath November felt?
Ere night, an icy shroud, which morning's rays
Will idly shine upon and slowly melt...
Bare are the places where the sweet flowers dwelt.
What joy sufficient hath November felt?
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