In the white, winter, sky doth ride

The cold brisk wind, a gliding bride

Her dress it flows, its quite the sight

To behold in your fingers which she will bite 

And you know how and where and when she’ll stop

Until the tips blue and black drop off

And she slides away as if on ice

Not before her touch will close your eyes

And her whistle will ever so sooth your mind

And he...

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