Tanka
All the trees are bare
Between my sky and window;
Grey spreadeth the dome,
Black are the crooked branches —
But among them flash blue-jays!
Slowly the sun droops,
But far above other hills,
August, serene, still,
The white Moon doth remember
All the weary day forgot!
Between my sky and window;
Grey spreadeth the dome,
Black are the crooked branches —
But among them flash blue-jays!
Slowly the sun droops,
But far above other hills,
August, serene, still,
The white Moon doth remember
All the weary day forgot!
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