Twilight
The mountain wears an ominous frown,
In the face of the troubled sky—
The woods on his crown gloom darkly down
From their rooted hold on high—
Like the hair of a grant close shorn, I trow,
They bristle up from his shaggy brow.
In the face of the troubled sky—
The woods on his crown gloom darkly down
From their rooted hold on high—
Like the hair of a grant close shorn, I trow,
They bristle up from his shaggy brow.
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