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'Twas the night before Veil, when all thro' the home
Not a figure was stirring, not even a Gnome;
The stockings were hung by the fire with care,
In hopes that Greatfather Winter soon would be there;
The children were nestled, all tucked in and fed,
When they were suddenly filled with a feeling of dread;
An imp was tip-toeing by the edge of their beds.
In little more than a flash and a glare of malevolence,
This vile little thing committed acts to incense;
Presents over his shoulder, he burst through the door,
The Dwarves didn't need a hero this much before.
Not a figure was stirring, not even a Gnome;
The stockings were hung by the fire with care,
In hopes that Greatfather Winter soon would be there;
The children were nestled, all tucked in and fed,
When they were suddenly filled with a feeling of dread;
An imp was tip-toeing by the edge of their beds.
In little more than a flash and a glare of malevolence,
This vile little thing committed acts to incense;
Presents over his shoulder, he burst through the door,
The Dwarves didn't need a hero this much before.
Spoiler:
Move him into the sun—
Gently its touch awoke him once,
At home, whispering of fields half-sown.
Always it woke him, even in France,
Until this morning and this snow.
If anything might rouse him now
The kind old sun will know.
Think how it wakes the seeds,—
Woke, once, the clays of a cold star.
Are limbs, so dear-achieved, are sides,
Full-nerved—still warm—too hard to stir?
Was it for this the clay grew tall?
—O what made fatuous sunbeams toil
To break earth’s sleep at all?
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