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The Storm
O how the howling winds do fly,
And coldly cast their blinding haze,
To dance between the barren trees
That bend above the snowy drifts so deep
O how ground grows brighter still,
Though evening dusk has turned to dark,
As heavy flakes work fast to shroud,
In clothes of white, the unsuspecting town
O how the eerie mist hangs low
Far down the distant country roads,
Obscuring souls in soft cascades
Of endless clouds and swirling spectral shapes.
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