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The pallid moon is waning, the stars are
veiled in grey;
A
rustle stirs the forest, then, sighing, dies away.
The
first faint flush of the sunrise is spread in the eastern sky.
For
night has gone, and a blackbird's song is echoed up on high. |
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Then, with a soundless clamour the
sleeping forest wakes,
And
the beauty of the breaking dawn is mirrored in its lakes.
Dewdrops
turn to rubies as the ragged clouds unfold,
And
the shrouded peaks of the distant hills are changed to towers of gold. |
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