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THE SNOW-STORM. 95
Feels not, within her pallid cheek,
The rich blood mantling warm, Like her who, laughing, shakes the snow
From whiten'd tress and form.
Snow is a tasteful artist,
For, on the frosted pane, I saw its tintless pencil trace
High tower, and arch, and fane, While proudly o'er the dizzy cliffs
A mimic Simplon wound, And old cathedrals rear'd their spires,
With Gothic tracery bound :
I think it hath a tender heart,
For I mark'd it, as it crept To spread a sheltering mantle where
The infant blossom slept ; It doth to earth a deed of love,
Though in a wintry way, And her turf-gown will be greener
For the snow that's fall'n to-day.
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