Lily-white snow is bussing the branches so black;
Swaying in desire to beget the blushed glory back.
Colorings, slithering into the blueprints of paleness.
Will these hushed up hues ever whistle in brightness?
Aware are the dried twigs of their deadness inside:
Yet, fancying for the sprightliest springtime besides.
Disgraced not they, of their nakedness in the day:
But jubilating at the greenish gown, earning their way.
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