Frost's signature is on all surfaces. Crystals of ice obscure each windowpane. Hung on the winter's walls, designs in silver here predicate the season once again. A cold night moon stays distant, and denies it was ever summer-ripe and hanging low. Stars prickle far and high as if a needle had pierced the sky to make each tiny glow. But now from outer view I turn my focus to inner contrast, standing glad before a fire that radiates accustomed warmth, and the welcome that has met me at the door. I'm gathered snug within sweet ease and comfort, with chair, and books;Skip to next paragraph
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