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Updated: May 11, 2025
The poet was still and white. He had been found lying under a rock, in a tiny natural cave. On a ledge near him, in some lightly-sifted snow, he had traced with his finger: "I must be ill, I've such a chill. Here I'll die, Nobody by. Who'll cry? Not I! The bag'll be found, It's safe and sound. There'll be no snow Where I shall go; There'll be no storm, It will be warm. Good-night! Good-night!"
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