Elizabeth Stuart Phelps Ward

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The firelight listens on the floor
To hear the wild winds blow.
Within, the bursting roses burn,
Without, there slides the snow.

Across the flower I see the flake
Pass mirrored, mystic, slow.
Oh, blooms and storms must blush and freeze,
While seasons come and go!

I lift the sash--and live, the gale
Comes leaping to my call.
The rose is but a painted one
That hangs upon the wall.

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