Maurice Thompson

At Night

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The moon hangs in a silver mist,
The stars are dull and thin;
Sleep, bending low, spreads loving arms
To fold the whole world in.
The air is like a spell; the hills
Waver, now seen, now lost;
The pallid river wanders by,
A vast unquiet ghost.


A hornëd owl on silent wings,
From out a cavernous place,
Speeds, like a bolt of darkness hurled
Athwart the shining space
Above the vale from wood to wood,
And leaves no trace behind,--
Like some dark fancy flung across
A pure and peaceful mind!

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Maurice Thompson