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The earth sleeps under winter's woolen blanket. Pastures of white reveal the fingerprints of passersby. Wistful faces watch the world through frosty panes of glass. The ever-greens adorn gloves of shimmery ivory silk, while the tall poplars bare their skin for all to see, not ashamed of their apparent nakedness.
Visitors dash from door to door, each breath a disappearing cloud. Little ones trudge through knee-deep powder, their movements hindered with each layer of supposed warmth. The eaves of the village are graced with icy daggers, dripping liquid cold onto unsuspecting victims.
Death and barrenness have made their arrival. The chase of vanity becomes a frigid adventure. Trials have turned to trails to the cellar. The soft sheet of gray drifts from the rooftops downward, weighing heavy on the minds of the many who seek the sun.
Marvel, dear saints, at the splendor of silence. Rejoice, laborers of the field, for the plentiful harvest has come in. Give thanks, thou elect, to the Master of every season. Sleep, oh creation, for the King has granted thee rest. Refresh thyself in the delight of the Lord.
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