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The Crickets sang

 The Crickets sang
And set the Sun
And Workmen finished one by one
Their Seam the Day upon.
The low Grass loaded with the Dew The Twilight stood, as Strangers do With Hat in Hand, polite and new To stay as if, or go.
A Vastness, as a Neighbor, came, A Wisdom, without Face, or Name, A Peace, as Hemispheres at Home And so the Night became.

Poem by Emily Dickinson
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