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Now sunk the sun; the closing hour of day Came onward, mantled o'er with sober gray; Nature in silence bid the world repose; When near the road a stately palace rose: There by the moon through ranks of trees they pass, Whose verdure crown'd their sloping sides of grass. -Thomas Parnell, The Hermit, 1722 I sift the snow on the mountains below, And their great pines groan aghast; And all the night 'tis my pillow white, While I sleep in the arms of the blast. -Percy Bysshe Shelley, The Cloud, 1820 |