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 DUSK wraps the village in its dim caress;
Each chimney’s vapour, like a thin grey rod,
Mounting aloft through miles of quietness,
 Pillars the skies of God.
Far up they break or seem to break their line, Mingling their nebulous crests that bow and nod Under the light of those fierce stars that shine Out of the calm of God.
Only in clouds and dreams I felt those souls In the abyss, each fire hid in its clod; From which in clouds and dreams the spirit rolls Into the vast of God.

Poem by George William Russell
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