Een winter deemed so desolate a waste
Hath crowds of beautys to the man of taste
& oft he walks about on quiet days
Full many things to notice & to praise
Where oer the snow clad fields the little feet
& woods so still he een may hear the sound
Of small wrens footsteps oer the heaving ground
While trees & branches make a splendid show
Of lights & shadows hung in wreaths of snow
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