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Oh, dimmer than a pearl—if you stoop down Your hand could almost reach it up to me. . ..

There was a new frail yellow moon to-night— I wish you could have had it for a cup With stars like dew to fill it to the brim. . ..

How cold it is! Even the lights are cold; They have put shawls of fog around them, see! What if the air should grow so dimly white That we would lose our way along the paths Made new by walls of moving mist receding The more we follow. . . . What a silver night! That was our bench the time you said to me The long new poem—but how different now, How eerie with the curtain of the fog Making it strange to all the friendly trees! There is no wind, and yet great curving scrolls Carve themselves, ever changing, in the mist. Walk on a little, let me stand here watching To see you, too, grown strange to me and far. . ..