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The winter comes; I walk alone,
I want no bird to sing;
To those who keep their hearts their own
The winter is the spring.
I never want the Christmas rose
To come before its time;
The seasons, each as God bestows,
Are simple and sublime.
I never want the grass to bloom:
The snowstorm's best in white.
I love to see the tempest come
And love its piercing light.
I love the snow, the crumpling snow
That hangs on everything,
It covers everything below
Like white dove's brooding wing,