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Sylvan Midnight

ISSUE:  Autumn 1929

THE moon rolled down a cliff of smoke And left it torn with shaggy light.
Among the shadows of an oak A rabbit crouched as still as night And listened to a tree-toad croak.
Then suddenly, behind a trace Of pearly cloud, the moon grew pale;
The rabbit loped across the trail Into the bushes’ silver lace.
The lonely tree-toad held its note A golden bubble in its throat;
And all was silent and remote.


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