up canvas hills of north,
and in darkness we'll wait lying
to see what we are worth.
And if we are lucky to be swept
into a sumptuous den of oak,
then we'll hope only to be kept
on the inside of the joke.
Where the line can be gently thrown,
become taught, shorten in length.
And in a silver silence let it be known
where exactly my faith meets my strength.
For the snow will soon be a-flying,
blanket over smiles, blanket over trees,
but there will be no use in trying
to sever myself from the winter breeze.
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