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Xxv.

Then let the icy north-wind blow
     The trumpets of the coming storm,
To arrowy sleet and blinding snow
     Yon slanting lines of rain transform.
Young hearts shall hail the drifted cold,
     As gayly as I did of old;
And I, who watch them through the frosty pane,
     Unenvious, live in them my boyhood o'er again.

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