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DUSK.

ROSY-LIPPED sunset kisses good-night,

Fades and dies in the western height.

One little star, from the wing of its mother,

Peeps, then follows many another.

Mountain and vale soft shadows blend:

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Night is at hand, day at an end.

Holy and calm is the twilight hour.

Passion and strife have lost their power;

Gone is the glare of ardent sun,

Perils of night not yet begun.

Placid and sweet the close of day

As comely Quakeress garbed in gray.

Breath of syringa, floating by,

Comes gale-wafted from arbor nigh.

Beetle booms, and flutters the moth;

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