Il a neigé by Maurice Carême

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A poem that still comes to mind on snowy days. I was seven and a blond little girl when I recited it for the first time, swinging from one foot to the other in my mother’s class. The curvy link she had us draw between semblent and avoir in the last sentence signaled a liaison to be made for the sake of rhythm. For once the oddly silent -ent verb ending, cause for countless public stumbles, became sound. It was revenge as much as it was music.

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