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HOW
countlessly they congregate
O'er our tumultuous snow,
Which flows in shapes as tall as trees
When wintry
winds do blow!--
As if with keenness for our fate,
Our faltering few steps on
To white rest, and a place
of rest
Invisible at dawn,--
And yet with neither
love nor hate,
Those stars like some snow-white
Minerva's snow-white marble eyes
Without the gift of
sight.
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