On Indian Lake
Apple trees on a low hill
And the dead sun behind;
The water red and still;
No sound, no wind.
Sudden the booming flight
Of coots upstirred;
Overhead, in the early night,
The moon, white bird.
And the dead sun behind;
The water red and still;
No sound, no wind.
Sudden the booming flight
Of coots upstirred;
Overhead, in the early night,
The moon, white bird.
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