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A still grey-blue creeps o’er my world;
the lazy smoke from yonder hill
winds heavenwards in silence, curled
above the trees around the mill,
reaching up into the haze
whose stealing darkness crowns the day’s
full glory in a funeral pyre.
And now I think of you -
What is there I can do?

The day’s far spent, the evening nigh;
the earth’s damp, the Moon is high:
sweet mists are gliding now beneath the trees
whose aged boughs are shedding Autumn tears
e’en though the soft kiss of the breeze
is deathly still at last - not a sound!
And Venus far is saying I have found
true happiness in all I see and hear
around me now - scented dew -
is that a nightingale?
Why must I think of you?