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Iris DeMent
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Upon the Hard Crest
Upon the hard crest of a snowdrift We tread, and grown quiet, we walk On towards my house, white, enchanted; Our mood is too tender for talk.
And sweeter than song is this dream now Come true, the low boughs of the firs That sway as we brush them in passing, The slight silver clink of your spurs. [1917]
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