Woods In Winter.

—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

WHEN winter winds are piercing chill,
And through the hawthorne blows the gale,
With solemn feet I tread the hill,
That overbrows the lonely vale.

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A Winter Piece.

—Tom Taylor.

FROST in the air, till every spray,
Stands diamond-set with rime,
That drops awhile at mid of day,
With tiny tinkling chime.
Beside the ice the ducks a-dose,
Dream of the pools to be;
The sheep for warmth lie huddled close,
Upon the naked lea.

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