II.
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hen wearily the nurse did throwHer pallet in the darkest placeOf that sick room, and slept and dreamed:For, as the gusty wind did blowThe night-lamp's flare across her face,She saw or seemed to see, but dreamed,That the poplars tall on the opposite hill,The seven tall poplars on the hill,Did clasp the setting sun untilHis rays dropped from him, pined and stillAs blossoms in frost,Till he waned and paled, so weirdly crossed,To the colour of moonlight which doth passOver the dank ridged churchyard grass.The poplars held the sun, and heThe eyes of the nurse that they should not see--Not for a moment, the babe on her knee,Though she shuddered to feel that it grew to beToo chill, and lay too heavily.
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