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IN veil of winter, frore is earth in shrouds;
The wind’s lament apes of some savage beast;
As spasms, drifts of snow, beat and rattle panes.
Oh dear, how frightful dost the silence ring;
Thou shalt not mark no robin’s plume nor air.
What direful stillness dost the darkness bring;
Of starless night, as bleak and cold as frost.
But fret not o’er the dearth of weather fair;
For home, I sight, at road’s conclusion nigh.
Thereafter journeys long and mountains high;
The feet are numb, a mist hangs in the mind;
The sleepless, the weary all trudge and sigh;
And yonder lost ones who tarry and delay;
Ere morning, seek solace to rest and weep;
And thus, one forges a constant for night.
Woe, hearts are wearied, torn by vanquished love.
When speech of comrade fails to move or lift;
No whimsical tune will bear hindrance;
From cackles of sputtering corruption;
Ergo, seal thine door fast in evil’s wake.
The table proffers a meager feast, dear;
Some pleasing bread and wine of ruby red.
A jolly fire springs on hearthstones bright;
Though rudely sung, how greatly songs delight;
Hark verses chorused with laughs and good glee.
Mount the wooden stairs and thou shall see:
A feather bed to rest thine drowsy head.
Whilst constant wind has yet resigned to cease;
Heed not the storm; do jest without a care.
Hasten hither home, yon sickle crescent wanes;
For home I dwell, and as my love for thou.
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