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THE MOON AND THE MORNING
THE MOON AND THE MORNING
The moon is riding high, the stars are shining
But very palely, through the clear blue light;
The plain is empty, and the circling mountains
Rise cold and far through swathes of mist to-night.
There is no wind astir, the serried rushes
Stand straight as lances round the glassed lagoon;
Within still waters grows a single lily,
A great white flower of solitude, the moon.
My shadow that seemed taller than the mountains
Lies gathered at my feet, a pool of ink,
And as I move towards the sombre reed-beds
I watch it spill and trickle, spread and shrink.
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