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The Moon, White…

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The moon, white,
Shines in the trees:
From each bright
Branch a voice flees...

 

 
Paul Verlaine
 
 
 
 

The moon, white,
Shines in the trees:

From each bright

Branch a voice flees

Beneath leaves that move,

 

O well-beloved.

 

The pools reflect

A mirror’s depth,

The silhouette

Of willows’ wet

Black where the wind weeps…

 

Let us dream, time sleeps.

 

It seems a vast, soothing,

Tender balm

Is falling

From heaven’s calm

Empurpled by a star…

 

It’s the exquisite hour.

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