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At Night

 The wind is singing through the trees to-night,
A deep-voiced song of rushing cadences
And crashing intervals.
No summer breeze Is this, though hot July is at its height, Gone is her gentler music; with delight She listens to this booming like the seas, These elemental, loud necessities Which call to her to answer their swift might.
Above the tossing trees shines down a star, Quietly bright; this wild, tumultuous joy Quickens nor dims its splendour.
And my mind, O Star! is filled with your white light, from far, So suffer me this one night to enjoy The freedom of the onward sweeping wind.

by Amy Lowell
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