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Charles Webster

 The pine woods on the hill,
And the farmhouse miles away,
Showed clear as though behind a lens
Under a sky of peacock blue!
But a blanket of cloud by afternoon
Muffled the earth.
And you walked the road And the clover field, where the only sound Was the cricket's liquid tremolo.
Then the sun went down between great drifts Of distant storms.
For a rising wind Swept clean the sky and blew the flames Of the unprotected stars; And swayed the russet moon, Hanging between the rim of the hill And the twinkling boughs of the apple orchard.
You walked the shore in thought Where the throats of the waves were like whippoorwills Singing beneath the water and crying To the wash of the wind in the cedar trees, Till you stood, too full for tears, by the cot, And looking up saw Jupiter, Tipping the spire of the giant pine, And looking down saw my vacant chair, Rocked by the wind on the lonely porch -- Be brave, Beloved!

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