His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
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At first thin wavering; till at last the Flakes
Fall broad, and wide, and fast, dimming the day
With a continual flow. The cherished Fields
Put on their winter-robe of purest white,
'Tis brightness all; save where the new Snow melts
Along the mazy current.
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