I.—THE NIGHT-WIND, TELLER OF SECRETS, 4 Down, down o’er the western hill; And its red glow dies … When the earth is dark and still, And he softly stirs Through the waiting firs And stately pines on the hill; He whispers low; then he breathes a sigh; Or whistles, or moans, or sings All his weird, strange glees ; Through the quiv’ring trees Where the black crow’s huge nest clings: And then he…
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