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While barred clouds bloom the soft dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft

Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft. The redbreast whistles from a garden croft, And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

KEATS.

THE

POETRY OF WINTER.

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