PLOUGH

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The snows are come in early state,
And love shall now go desolate
If we should keep too close a gate.
Over the woods a splendour falls
Of death, and grey are the Gloucester walls,
And grey the skies for burials.
But secret in the falling snow
I see the patient ploughman go,
And watch the quiet furrows grow.
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

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