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O Winter! thou art not that haggard Lear,
With stormy beard and countenance of woe,
Raving amain, or dumbly crouching low,
In hoary desolation mocked with fear!
To me thou art the white queen of the year,
A stately virgin in her robes of snow,
With royal lilies crowned, and all aglow
With holy charms, and gems celestial clear.
Nor dost thou come in barren majesty,—
Thou hast thy dower of sunbeams, thrice refined,—
Nor songless, but with cheerful minstrelsy,
Rung from the singing harpstrings of the wind;
And, ah! with such sweet dreams, such visions bright,
Of flowers and birds, and love's divine delight!

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