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by Sarah Teasdale The world is bitter cold to-night, The moon is cruel, and the wind Is like a two-edged sword to smite. God pity all the homeless ones, The beggars pacing to and fro, God pity all the poor to-night Who walk the lamp-lit streets of snow. My room is like a bit of June, Warm and close-curtained fold on fold, But somewhere, like a homeless child, My heart is crying in the cold. |
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