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 Remaining—only night, that's made for shadows, Shadows and sleep and dreams, or dreams without it. The fire went slowly down, and now the moon, Or that late wreck of it, was coming up; And though it was a martyr's work to move, I must obey my shadow, and I did. There were two beds built low against the wall, And down on one of them, with all my clothes on, Like a man getting into his own grave, I lay—and waited. As the firelight sank, The moonlight, which had partly been consumed By the black trees, framed on the other wall A glimmering window not far from the ground. The coals were going, and only a few sparks Were there to tell of them; and as they died