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The Dawn


A canopy of cloud is coming
down to touch the glist’ning ground,
and birds are not yet singing.

And people in their beds are dreaming,
fears forestalled by a steady sound:
the hourly bells are ringing.

The violet velvet sky is stirring
life upon the dismal downs,
and soft the birds are singing.

The gentry rise with drowsy grumbling:
souls that to the world are bound.
The hourly bells are ringing.

At last the scarlet veil is lifting,
and Earth is shown in glory crowned,
and still the birds are singing;
the hourly bells are ringing.

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