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CHRYSANTHEMUMS.
159
And what to me are light and glee
When all the while I know
That cold and deep the snow-drifts heap
Above thy slumber low,
What do I care that white and fair
The Christ's sweet flowers blow?
When all the while I know
That cold and deep the snow-drifts heap
Above thy slumber low,
What do I care that white and fair
The Christ's sweet flowers blow?
