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Poem by Madison Julius Cawein
Sad o'er the hills the poppy sunset died. Slow as a fungus breaking through the crusts Of forest leaves, the waning half-moon thrusts, Through gray-brown clouds, one milky silver side; In her vague light the dogwoods, vale-descried, Seem nervous torches flourished by the gusts; The apple-orchards seem the restless dusts Of wind-thinned mists upon the hills they hide. It is a night of omens whom late May Meets, like a wraith, among her train of hours; An apparition, with appealing eye And hesitant foot, that walks a willowed way, And, speaking through the fading moon and flowers, Bids her prepare her gentle soul to die.
Madison Julius Cawein
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