From this fair night to draw meet music down
A long-benighted wind makes harps of trees
And, not to lose the sight while men’s eyes drowse,
The moon gives light and stares upon the scene

Dew upon dew condenses ; from the city
Chimes of far away bells the hours attune,
The silver landscape, no man walks wherein,
Unto itself is sweet, a secret Beauty

Oh, that content, content might softly so
Steal over me and chat this longing for fame,
That I might love the trees about my home,
Or well enough sing to throw my songs away

Frank Kendon

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