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THE GREY LAKE
Forty miles to westward,
A hundred north,
Wind-fiends hunt the water
Back—back and forth.
There are reed-grown islands
The eye scarce sees,
Grey ooze guarding grimly
Their mysteries.
Strange Things may survive there,
What, who can tell?
Monsters old—the lake-slime
Can guard them well.
No one knows those islands,—
The gulls that fly
May go near, but others
Would surely die.
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