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 Here Glimmers our path, still vaguely clear, The little rutted chalky way That none, I’ll warrant, all the day Has trod, save us. On either hand The dim, pathetic downs expand,— Patches of wan and whiten’d green, Or purple where the plough has been, And tawny hillocks. Not a sound, Save, somewhere rustling near the ground, A homeward lark; and, far behind, A great voice vanquishing the wind— The Sea’s. All else is near asleep, No daring star makes shift to peep Twixt these wild massy clouds that fly So fast along the pallid sky. Only the lighthouse beacon streams Athwart the night in two bright beams That lonelier make the dark.