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a web of many textures

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We shiver as we feel the biting air,
And think more warmly of the ones who suffer,
Counting how much of change we have to spare
For those who wrestle with Old Frost, the buffer; —
Not he who aldermanic honors gained
By public favor in the late election,
But Jack Frost, who our comfort has profaned,
And now assails the poor, who need protection.
Depend upon 't, cold weather is the time
To set our warm heart's blood in kindness flowing,
To coin itself in many a ready dime,
And make the loan the Scripture page is showing,
For which a four-fold interest is given,
Paid at the eternal banking-house in heaven!