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I give the greatest gifts of all,

One gift taken in the fall.

My arms keep children warm at night,

My body broken, of this they write.

Within my halls bright colors hung,

The songs of lovers sweetly sung.

My hands are strong, my feet are still,

I but journey against my will.

Upon my fingers gems I wear,

Mere trinkets cast from year to year.

Bands sing ballads of my life:

My youth, my years, my common strife.

Within my breast, if you should look . . .

The makings of a wondrous book.

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