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For at high-noon I heard from this same garden The far-off murmur as when many come; Up from the village surged the blind and beating Red music of a drum;

And the hysterical sharp fife that shattered The brittle autumn air, While they came, the young men marching Past the village square. . ..

Across the calm Connecticut the hills change To violet, the veils of dusk are deep— Earth takes her children's many sorrows calmly And stills herself to sleep.