Indoors the fire is kindled;
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Beechwood is piled on the hearthstone;
Cold are the chattering oak leaves;
And the ponds frost-bitten.
Softer than rainfall at twilight,
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Bringing the fields benediction
And the hills quiet and greyness,
Are my long thoughts of thee.
How should thy friend fear the seasons?
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They only perish of winter
Whom Love, audacious and tender,