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Poem	A little black thing among the snow: Crying weep, weep, in notes of woe! Where are thy father & mother? say? They are both gone up to the church to pray. Because I was happy upon the heath. And smil'd among the winters snow: They clothed me in the clothes of death. And taught me to sing the notes of woe. And because I am happy. & dance & sing. They think they have done me no injury: And are gone to praise God & his Priest & King, Who made up a heaven of our misery.
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