On many brooks,
The brook can see no moon but this.
Her sickle from the lightening skies,
And to her sombre cavern flies,
Wrapped in a veil of yellow gauze.
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Waxing so fast from night to night,
And swelling like an orange flower-bud, bright,
Fated, methought, to round as to a golden cup,
And hold to my two lips life's best of wine.
HEX: #302E22
RGB: 48 46 34
RGB: 48 46 34
HEX: #C50514
RGB: 197 5 20
RGB: 197 5 20
HEX: #BA7005
RGB: 186 112 5
RGB: 186 112 5
HEX: #4681BD
RGB: 70 129 189
RGB: 70 129 189
HEX: #C7CAB5
RGB: 199 202 181
RGB: 199 202 181
Rejoicing in thy sway, fair queen of night!
The ruddy reapers hail thee with delight:
Theirs is the harvest, theirs the joyous call
For tasks well ended ere the season's fall.