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- THE river sleeps beneath the sky,
- And clasps the shadows to its breast;
- The crescent moon shines dim on high;
- And in the lately radiant west
- The gold is fading into gray.
- Now stills the lark his festive lay,
- And mourns with me the dying day.
- While in the south the first faint star
- Lifts to the night its silver face,
- And twinkles to the moon afar
- Across the heaven's graying space,
- Low murmurs reach me from the town,
- As Day puts on her sombre crown,
- And shakes her mantle darkly down.
- Paul Laurence Dunbar
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