Under the Lamp-post

There stands an old lamp-post of metal,

Its branches are bare but black as stone.

Its panes of shallow glass are tinged and fringed

In antique aria and sepia.

Ever-steady flickering candlelight

Gleams against the new fallen snow.

A bright chested robin flits and floats

To rest on an ornamented orb,

Singing a song against the tyranny of winter,

Defying the blistering and boisterous cold

And ever hanging, ever ganging icicles. 

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