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 Only a heron, high up in the sky, Cries with a melancholy cry; Cries to the house, to the road and the trees, Cries to the wayfarer passing these; Between us the valleys are green and wide, But what is beyond — on the other side?

Pale trees on the horizon grow, Pale, faint and dim and grey. Can they be real trees? They flow Into the mist away! Beyond and beyond, and further still, Beyond, till we cross the world's last hill — So it goes. So it always will!