THRUSHES
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ossed on the glittering air they soar and skim,Whose voices make the emptiness of lightA windy palace. Quavering from the brimOf dawn, and bold with song at edge of night,They clutch their leafy pinnacles and singScornful of man, and from his toils aloofWhose heart's a haunted woodland whispering;Whose thoughts return on tempest-baffled wing;Who hears the cry of God in everything,And storms the gate of nothingness for proof.
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