IN WINTER WOODS 



And here, where shelvingly a slope recedes 

 Down to the prisoned marsh's icy crust, 

 Thorn twigs are seen, their daggers outward thrust, 

 And blackened stems of brittle river reeds. 



These you may gather; all are nature's own, 

 Touched by the sunlight, gladdened by the rain; 

 And beautiful if you should deem them so, 

 As here they dream among the byways lone, 

 Illumined by the bitter-sweet's bright stain, 

 Red as a winter sunset's afterglow. 



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