The icy Atoms thro' the burden'd Air
Shed Languor, and enwrap with double Fleece
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The Slumbering Fold; they cloathe the knotted oak,
Stretching its naked arms, as if to chide,
With [age's] stern and touching Eloquence
The ruthless Skies for Summer's slow return.
The winds that in converging Furrows plough
The freezing pool, and shake the [rattling] Wood,
Are arm'd with pain, and vitrified their Wings.