The silence of the moonlight
Slips through the empty sill
A quiet that is telling
Of loads of time to kill.
The warm, eternal hour
Beats wind against the pane
And floods the lawn with power
Of heads of rushing grain.
A mockingbird sings softly
A tune that no one knows
And buds burst into blossoms
Beneath the starlit glow.
It seems all drooping silence
As if no creature stirred
But slowness is the novel
Of evening worm and bird.
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