XXVIII

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XXVIII

The snow descends and buries all,

Hangs heavy on the oaken boughs,

A white and undulating pall

O’er hillock and o’er meadow throws.

The channel of the river stilled

As if with eider-down is filled.

The hoar-frost glitters: all rejoice

In mother Winter’s strange caprice.

But Tania’s heart is not at ease,

Winter’s approach she doth not hail

Nor the frost particles inhale

Nor the first snow of winter seize

Her shoulders, breast and face to lave⁠—

Alarm the winter journey gave.