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Frost’s crackling, too, but still she’s cozy
Amidst the fields’ light silv’ry dust...
(You’re all supposing I’ll write «rosy»,
As Pushkin did—and so I must!)
Slick as a dance parquet swept nicely,
The brooklet glints and glistens icily.
A joyous band of skate-shod boys
Cuts graceful ruts to rowdy noise.
A clumsy goose, by contrast, wishing
To swim upon the glassy sheet,
Lands stumbling on its red webbed feet,
And slips and tumbles. Swirling, swishing,
Gay twinking stars—the show’s first try—
Bedaub the creekside ere they die.

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