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falls the moon's transforming light
 * On lichen-covered rock and granite wall,

Comes piercing through the hollows of the night
 * The loon's weird, plaintive call.

Like some great regiment upon the shore
 * The stalwart pines go trooping up the hill,

And faintly in the distance o'er and o'er
 * Echoes the whip-poor-will.

Like silhouettes the dreaming islands keep
 * Their silent watches, mirrored in the tide,

While in their labyrinthine aisles some deep,
 * Still mystery seems to hide.

From out the shadows dim against the sky
 * Come stealing shadow-ships not made of men,

Faint phantom-barques that slowly drifting by
 * Are swallowed up again.