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

p. 94


The moon leans mirrored on the dark guitar
As though she fears its cadences unheard
May lapse into the night. Oh! I am stirred
By some some rare tone afar
Caught from the drifting Palaces of Cold, 1
Where pale musicians through the moon-mists peer,
And challenged into song. Of waters rolled
Seaward I sing. Now clear
Now muffled in the wreathèd haze, now fall
My chords far strangled down the forest. All
My cares are centred in the strings, and I forget
That night and dawn on the long grey line have met.

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