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My Genesis
When winter has blustered its last harsh blow,
And no ice can be seen on the pane,
When the house doesn't chill as the fire dies low,
And the dogwoods are whiting the lane,
My heart too will waken on each chilly morn
With a tune like the song of a lark,
And I'll walk away from all heartache and scorn,
To leave them behind in the dark.
