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FM
Former Member

ST. AGNES’ Eve—Ah, bitter chill it was! 

  The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;         

  The hare limp’d trembling through the frozen grass,    

  And silent was the flock in woolly fold:

  Numb were the Beadsman’s fingers, while he told       

 His rosary, and while his frosted breath,         

  Like pious incense from a censer old,   

  Seem’d taking flight for heaven, without a death,         

Past the sweet Virgin’s picture, while his prayer he saith.



Nice night for a visit to the outhouse I think not..for so cold

n'er creature would stir, not even a rat.

 

 

 

Ah yessssssss, Keats would be proud of me.

cain
Last edited by cain

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