Poetry

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Like a ribbon that's spun
Of the purest of silk,
The road crossed the cold bleak dale
It appeared that the frost
On the wintry panes
Was embossed with images from beyond the pale
And the winter-sky,
Lit with the moon and the stars,
Made the icicles glow in the night-
And the beauty of all
Of that December view
Was perceived in the essence of light-
And deceived by the soft...firelight.

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