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The woods are lovely, dark and deep – But I have promises to keep merry christmas, marylou
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bird by snow and stir by still –- anyone’s any was all to her
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And at night you pull the sky down to you and hood yourself in stars.
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So might rigor mortis come to stiffen
 all creation, were it not for a bigger belly still than swallows joy.
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“Hope” is the thing with feathers — That perches in the soul —
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