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a web of many textures

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The snow upon a morn was falling fast,
Borne on the cold and driving wind along,
When, mid the whirl of snow-flakes and the blast,
Rose the sweet cadence of a robin's song.
Upon a leafless bough he sat, and trilled
His matin-hymn in tone as glad and high
As if the air with blossomy breath were filled,
And golden sunshine sparkled in the sky.
I thought how like was this to that true soul
Which upward soars and sings mid earthly strife,
That yields no moment to adverse control,
But makes the best of good and bad in life;
That feels as jolly with a scolding wife
As when the day with fortune's gifts is rife.