  Across the fog the moon lies fair. Transfused with ghostly amethyst, O white Night, charm to wonderment The cattle in the mist! Thy touch, O grave Mysteriarch, Makes dull, familiar things divine. O grant of thy revealing gift Be some small portion mine! Make thou my vision sane and clear, That I may see what beauty clings In common forms, and find the soul Of unregarded things! |
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