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Poem	I heard the farm cocks crowing, loud, and faint, and thin, When hooded night was going and one clear planet winked: I heard shrill notes begin down the spired wood distinct, When cloudy shoals were chinked and gilt with fires of day. White-misted was the weald; the lawns were silver-grey; The lark his lonely field for heaven had forsaken; And the wind upon its way whispered the boughs of may, And touched the nodding peony-flowers to bid them waken.
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