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The Fir-Tree

by Josephine Preston Peabody

The winds have blown more bitter

Each darkening day of fall;

High over all the house-tops

The stars are far and small

I wonder, will my fir-tree

Be green in spite of all?

O grief is colder—colder

Than wind from any part;

And tears of grief are bitter tears,

And doubt’s a sorer smart!

But I promised to my fir-tree

To keep the fragrant heart.