Soft she slips into the wood,
Garlanding brush and branches,
Spreading out her lovely cloak,
To cover posts and fences.
Now she drifts into the yard,
Making all things bright,
Swathing each and every thing,
In a mantle of pure white.
The roses in my garden,
Will sleep through Winter's night,
Beneath their mantle made of snow,
Hidden from my sight.
Winter's queen is lovely,
And wonderful to...
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