Page:Tristram of Lyonesse and other poems (IA tristramoflyonesswinrich).pdf/356

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338
A DARK MONTH.

All the suns that rise
Bring that day more near our eyes
When the sight of him shall clear our clouded skies.

All the winds that roam
Fruitful fields or fruitless foam
Blow the bright hour near that brings his bright face home,

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