III
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ain, fain would we see but again for an hour what the wind and thesun have dispelled and consumed,Those full deep swan-soft feathers of snow with whose luminousburden the branches implumedHung heavily, curved as a half-bent bow, and fledged not as birdsare, but petalled as flowers,Each tree-top and branchlet a pinnacle jewelled and carved, or afountain that shines as it showers,But fixed as a fountain is fixed not, and wrought not to last tillby time or by tempest entombed,As a pinnacle carven and gilded of men: for the date of its doom isno more than an hour's,One hour of the sun's when the warm wind wakes him to wither thesnow-flowers that froze as they bloomed.
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