Driven by the four faces of the wind

Flakes of winter snow bestrew the earth

Painting their pale visages ungrinned

Busily adding weight and increasing girth

From whence are we bequeathed this blanket cold

cycled in between warmth and rain

Though precious as elusive veins of gold

It is not sought and at our feet is lain

Its universal worth oft goes unseen

And man awaits its final wane

Its need is more than wealth and flora green

And covers all for which we search in vain

Without its blesséd covered bed

There is not could raise its withered head.

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