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WINTER MONTHS 
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‘His breath like silver arrows pierced the air, 
The naked earth crouched shuddering at his feet, 
His finger on all flowing waters sweet 
Forbidding lay-motion nor sound was there 
Nature was frozen dead,-:—and still and slow, 
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A winding sheet fell o’er her body fair, 
Flaky and soft, from his wide wings of snow. 
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Frances Antic Kemble 
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