And smite the hills with day.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
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With flashing streaks and shafts of amethyst,
While a light crimson mist
Went up before the mounting luminary,
And all the strips of cloud began to vary
Their hues, and all the zenith seemed to ope
As if to show a cope beyond the cope!