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Night goes hurrying over Like sweeping clouds; The birds are nested; their song is silent. The wind says oo—oo—oo—through the trees For their lullaby. The moon shines down on the sleeping birds. My cottage roof is like a sheet of silk Spun like a cobweb. My apple-trees are bare as the oaks in the forest; When the moon shines I see no leaves. I am alone and very quiet Hoping the moon may say something Before long. |