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Normale Version: Snow
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Snow

From their innumerrable breasts and wings –
All undiscerned by these our mortal eyes,
Hid in the folds of yonder misty skies,
More like imagined sprites than real things –

Celestial doves are shedding their white plumes,
And the whole land is covered with a shower
Of motes as fair as is an unsunned flower
Which, when it opens, yields its short-lived blooms

Vestured all over like a bride in white,
But colder than a corpse within its shroud;
The earth sleeps sparkling in the silver light

Of the soft snow, which, like a feathery cloud,
Still falls, as gently as Hope’s dreams, or Love’s,
From the pure forms of those celestial doves.