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November has stook naked at my door, Its harvest spent, its beech leaves paper-frail. The little sparrows and the striped quail Lie hidden on the meadow's brown grass floor; The crows, like jet beads on the sycamore, Sidle along the branch; the shadowy trail Is silent to the listening deer. The pale Gray sky is heavy wiht its fragrant store Of snow, and snow chill hovers in the air. And then the tiny flakes, like David's stars, Fall gently, rustle in the oak trees, light On the evergreens. Against the pasture bars The weeds have flowers of snow. Now everywhere On hills, in marsh and town, the day is white.

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