Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman

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SOUNDS of the winter too,

Sunshine upon the mountains—many a distant strain

From cheery railroad train—from nearer field, barn, house,

The whispering air—even the mute crops, garner'd apples, corn,

Children's and women's tones—rhythm of many a farmer and
of flail,

An old man's garrulous lips among the rest, Think not we give
out yet,

Forth from these snowy hairs we keep up yet the lilt.

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