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Lo, a pallid fleecy vapour
  Far along the East is spread;
Every star has quench’d its taper,
  Lately glimmering over head.
On the leaves, that bend so lowly,
  Drops of crystal water gleam;
Yawning wide, the peasant slowly
  Drives afield his sluggish team.
Dreary looks the forest, lacking
  Song of birds that slumber mute;
No rough swain is yet attacking,
  With his bill, the beech’s root.
Night’s terrific ghostly hour
  Backward through time’s circle flies;
No shrill clock from moss-grown tower
  Bids the dead men wake and rise.
Wearied out with midnight riot
  Mystic Nature slumbers now;
Mouldering bodies rest in quiet,
  ’Neath their tomb-lids damp and low;
Sad and chill the wind is sighing
  Through the reeds that skirt the pool,
All around looks dead or dying,
  Wrapt in sorrow, clad in dool.

© George Borrow