Jack London



                   Weasel Thieves


                   The weasel thieves in silver suit,
                   The rabbit runs in gray,
                   And Pan takes up his frosty flute
                   To pipe the cold away.
                   The flocks are folded, boughs are bare,
                   The salmon takes the sea;
                   And oh, my fair, would I somewhere
                   Might house my heart with thee.


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