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VII. THE PAUSE OF EVENING
Nightward on dimmest wing in Twilight's trainThe grey hours floated smoothly, lingeringly;
A solemn wonder was the western sky
Rich with the slow forsaking sunset-stain,
Barred by long violet cloud; hillside and plain
The feet of Night had touched; a wind's low sigh
Told of whole pleasure lapsed,—then rustled by
With soft subsidence in the rippling grain,
Why in dark dews, unready to depart,
Did Evening pause and ponder, nor perceive
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What secret was the burden of her heart?
What grave, sweet memory grew she loath to leave?
What finer sense, no morrow may renew?
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