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Out on the field of tawny yellow

winter’s drear, and among the bare

skeletal branches of forlorn trees

plays a breeze slyly slight;

the sere sky glows with veiled light,

a beauty strange and unlooked for,

and out on the field of barren blond

snow-flurries dance, they wheel and rush

a strange romance of winter demure, a-blush

with half-concealed glory.

Snow-dancers amid the stark and cold,

you coyly call, softly unfold the mystery

of beauty bursting through the bleak,

of love in clouded seasons,

and glory waiting to be.