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V.

Since then, the winter blasts have piled
     The white pagodas of the snow
On these rough slopes, and, strong and wild,
     Yon river, in its overflow
Of spring-time rain and sun, set free,
     Crashed with its ices to the sea;
And over these gray fields, then green and gold,
     The summer corn has waved, the thunder's organ rolled.

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