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Winter
Down by the water-meadows
All on a winter’s noon,
There was a naked thorn-bush
Sang a mournful rune;
She told the reeds a story
Of memories and sighs,
Of the robber bees’ carousal
And the waft of butterflies.
All in a winter’s gloaming
Down by the shingly shore,
There were two ancient sailormen
Outside a tavern door,
Complaining to each other
With lamentable lips
For the great dead captains,
And the old Sailing Ships.

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