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While the softest snow falls on boughs evergreen,
Glittering white, untouched and pristine.
Through forest and glen the four winds do blow,
Whispering Yule song on the wings of a crow.
Over rooftops and chimneys, curling with smoke,
Where inside the hearth's log is sure to be stoked.
As merry men dream, tucked away in their beds,
The rays of morning begin to shed.
And the hushed spell of night is slowly undone,
The land is a prism beneath morning sun.
Glistening, radiant - a sight to behold,
A crisp winter scenery starts to unfold.
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