At twelve o'clock tonight,When every house is dark,
Who ride the roads alone?
The winds of winter. Hark!
The moon is clear above,
The earth is hard below;
And with a little dust
They drive a little snow.
The make the maples roar,
The withered flowers hiss,
Along the way they go
On such a night as this.
The winds usurp the earth,
And even safely housed,
Folk must cling fast to sleep
Not to be oft aroused.
-robert frost
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