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The Sylphs of the Seasons, with other poems

Allston, Washington (1779-1843)

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15

Again it call'd; and then a ray,
That seem'd a gushing fount of day,
Across the cavern stream'd.
Half struck with terror and delight,
I hail'd the little blessed light,
And follow'd till my aching sight
An orb of darkness seem'd.
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