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by James W. Whilt

Winter has descended o'er mountain and hill,
His mantle of snow has spread;
The grass and flowers are withered and brown,
The leaves on the bushes are dead.

The streams all are silent in icy embrace,
They are held in his bondage so strong:
Not even one faint murmur is heard,
Where they laughed so loud and so long.

The trees are draped in a mantle of snow,
That clings to their boughs like a shroud,
And the mountains cold and still and white
Appear like a light fleecy cloud.

The cattle have come from their good summer range,
The sheep have all entered the fold,
Winter, they know, is starting its slumber,
And the wind is so searching and cold.

The logs in the fire-place crackle and glow—
Our cabin's all cozy and warm,
The dogs are a-sleeping,—content as can be,
So why worry o'er winter's storm.

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