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A Feast of Lanterns, by L. Cranmer-Byng, [1916], at


Not yet has the cool moon topped the hill.
White are the floating clouds that fill
Half heaven's void; while to and fro
By the verandah windows go
My halting steps that pause as though
Stilled for the sound of one I love.
The flying brightness shimmers through the grove,
And, mirrored on the pine-ringed pool,
Makes her dream-waters beautiful.
Now Autumn's purest alchemy anew
Quickens the moonlight and distils the dew,
And silence, coiled more closely round my walls,
Strangles each tiny rumour that befalls.

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