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Our ancient avenue of cedar trees,— How black they look, and with what heavy strength The giant branches move!—the weary air Like a deep breath comes from them.—Ah, how dark! It is the first cloud that has touch'd the moon:— Her loveliness has conquer'd,—oh, not yet!— One huge cloud, and another. I could deem The evil powers did war on high to-night. And are there such that o'er humanity Hold influence,—the terrible, the wild,— Inscrutable as fear,—the ministers To our unholy passions? These are they Who dazzle with unrighteous wealth, and make Our sleep temptation; they who fill its dreams With passionate strife and guilt, until the mind Is grown familiar with the sight of blood.