Cold winds beat the casement pane
for winter's winged approach is near;
a frost has settled on the grass
(radiant spines of trembling glass)
beneath the coppered beech.
But still I linger, await the fall
of silvered mist from gravid sky,
whence might the hoarfrost rime the tree,
the scarlet orb of winter berry,
and weight the bough of pine.
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