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Called Music

It is whining in the air, in daring thought
The bard shall sing of music that is strange.
I believe in the thinkers who passed away
From the region in time, and returned to heights
Of the seasons of joy, and pleasure, and regard.
In the snow has it the shovelling of mice who
Cradle like ice cubes their rewarding music
And the instruments we enjoy.
An enemy of the state is comfortable,
More to the question, in danger of the snow

And its sting.
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