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At Night

by Amy Lowell, 1912

The wind is singing through the trees to-night,
 A deep-voiced song of rushing cadences
 And crashing intervals.  No summer breeze
Is this, though hot July is at its height,
Gone is her gentler music; with delight
 She listens to this booming like the seas,
 These elemental, loud necessities
Which call to her to answer their swift might.
 Above the tossing trees shines down a star,
 Quietly bright; this wild, tumultuous joy
Quickens nor dims its splendour.  And my mind,
 O Star! is filled with your white light, from far,
 So suffer me this one night to enjoy
The freedom of the onward sweeping wind.

Published in A Dome of Many-Coloured Glass

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