The wind is astir in the town;
It wanders the street like a ghost
In a catacomb's labyrinth lost;
Seeking a path to the heath.
Broad lightnings stream silently down
On the silent city beneath.
But haunting my ear is the tune
Of the larks as they bathe in the light;
And I have a vision of noon
Like a fresco limned on the night:
I see a green crescent of trees;
A slope of ripe wheat is its foil,
The cream of the sap of the soil,
Curdling, but sweet, in the breeze.
The sun hastes, and evening longs
For the moon to follow after;
And my thought has the tenderest scope:
Tears that are happy as laughter,
Sighs that are sweeter than songs,
Memories dearer than hope.
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