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Fear

 The host, he says that all is well
And the fire-wood glow is bright;
The food has a warm and tempting smell,—
But on the window licks the night.
Pile on the logs.
.
.
Give me your hands, Friends! No,— it is not fright.
.
.
But hold me.
.
.
somewhere I heard demands.
.
.
And on the window licks the night.

Poem by Hart Crane
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