Clinton Scollard


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The world is locked in sleep with perfect night.
Gazing from out my window I behold
The moon, a burnished bowl of gleaming gold,
Hung in mid-sky with azure wine brimmed bright.
The sentinel church-spire lifts its stately height,
And, where the vane upon its crest is bold,
A single wanderer from the starry fold
Shines cold and spectral with its twinkling light.

White are the roofs, in crystal garments all;
Unheard the murmuring streamlet's rhythmic flow--
Weird shapes upon the spotless waste of snow,
The tree trunks stand where their gaunt shadows fall.
Blest hour of rest--gift of a hand Divine!
What quiet, peace, tranquillity are thine!

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Clinton Scollard