Voices moving about in the quiet house:
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ut in the night there's autumn-smelling gloomCrowded with whispering trees,--looming of oaksThat roared in wild wet gales: across the parkThe hollow cry of hounds like lonely bells:And I know that the clouds are moving across the moon,The low, red, rising moon.The herons callAnd wrangle by their pool; and hooting owlsSail from the wood across pale stocks of wheat. Waiting for sleep, I drift from thoughts like these;And where to-day was dream-like, build my dreams.Music ... there was a bright white room below,And someone singing a song about a soldier,--One hour, two hours ago; and soon the songWill be 'last night': but now the beauty swingsAcross my brain, ghost of remember'd chordsWhich still can make such radiance in my dreamThat I can watch the marching of my soldiers,And count their faces; faces; sunlit faces. Falling asleep ... the herons, and the hounds...September in the darkness; and the worldI've known; all fading past me into peace.
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