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<h2>XVII—WINTER</h2>
<p class="poetry">In rigorous hours, when down the iron lane<br/>
The redbreast looks in vain<br/>
For hips and haws,<br/>
Lo, shining flowers upon my window-pane<br/>
The silver pencil of the winter draws.</p>
<p class="poetry">When all the snowy hill<br/>
And the bare woods are still;<br/>
When snipes are silent in the frozen bogs,<br/>
And all the garden garth is whelmed in mire,<br/>
Lo, by the hearth, the laughter of the logs—<br/>
More fair than roses, lo, the flowers of fire!</p>
<p><i>Saranac Lake</i>.</p>
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