A wrinkled crabbed man they picture thee,Old Winter, with a rugged beard as greyAs the long moss upon the apple-tree;Blue-lipt, an icedrop at thy sharp blue nose,Close muffled up, and on thy dreary wayPlodding alone through sleet and drifting snows.They should have drawn thee by the high-heapt hearth,Old Winter! seated in thy great armed chair,Watching the children at their Christmas mirth;Or
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