The Winds are cold, the days are dark

The winds are cold, the days are dark,
In this unlovely land
The East wind rises with the tide
To chill the populous strand

Above me shines no Syrian moon
With warm luxurious glow,
Nor golden orange groves at noon
Perfume the world below.

Yet more I prize this frozen land,
This iron soil of ours,
Than fields by Indian breezes fanned
And crimsoned oer with flowers
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