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Snow

 No breath of wind,
No gleam of sun – 
Still the white snow
Whirls softly down
Twig and bough
And blade and thorn
All in an icy
Quiet, forlorn.
Whispering, rustling, Through the air On still and stone, Roof, - everywhere, It heaps its powdery Crystal flakes, Of every tree A mountain makes; ‘Til pale and faint At shut of day Stoops from the West One wint’ry ray, And, feathered in fire Where ghosts the moon, A robin shrills His lonely tune.

Poem by John Davidson
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