  Into the soft mist the fishing-boats go, As silent as moonlight, as silent as snow; Just where the pale sea melts into the sky, Silver-grey birds of the autumn, they fly Slowly and smoothly and statelily past Till their wide pinions are hidden at last. From the high rock whence I watch on the hill Down to the sea, all is muffled and still. Never a leaflet stirs soft overhead, Everything living is frozen or fled, Fled through the mist to more wonderful things.... Am I the only soul left without wings? Penzance. |
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