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28
Fyodor Tyutchev
JULY 14, AT NIGHT
Not yet cooled, the windless night
Of July shone strangely still.
Earth lay dim, and fitful light
In the skyey, storm-filled height
Trembled over field and hill.
So might lidded eyes unclose,
And between vast lashes burn
Glances flaming and morose,
Over earth's remote repose,
Mute as lightning, swift and stern.
