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By the edge of the Brandywine
where weeping willows grow,
I find a fallen tree trunk
still clear of snow.
I sit upon the tree trunk,
watch grey green waters flow
southward towards the Chesapeake
through banks of snow.
I sing to the Brandywine:
green waters,
clean waters,
where do you flow?
I hear the river answer:
over hills,
over rills,
through the white snow.
