Winter, and winter, and winter
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded weather;
And all our snowstorms have allowed others
A way to shovel drifts. Out, out, you mildness!
Winter’s but a walking shadow, just boring weather,
That struts and frets its months upon the calendar,
And then gives way to spring. It is a tale
Told by a weatherman, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

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