It is the day when he was born
A bitter day that early sank
Behind a purple frosty bank
Of vapour, leaving night forlorn
The time admits not flowers nor leaves
To deck the banquet. Fiercely flies
The blast of North and East, and ice
Wakes daggers at the sharpen'd eaves,
And bristles all the brakes and thorns
To yon crescent, as she hangs
Above the wood which grides and clangs
Its leafless ribs and iron horns.
Tennyson
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