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AMERIOAN ORNITHOLOGY 



EVENING. 



Dim grows the wood; the amber evening tints 

 Merge into opal skies and stars just seen: 

 Dow^n vistas gloomed and winding there are hints 

 Of elves and gnomes along the mosses green. 



MIDNIGHT. 



A holy song the thrush has distant sung; 



The tree-tops murmur like some dreaming sea: 



Hark! far away a silvern bell has rung 



Twelve strokes, slow tolled, that faint and fade from me. 



MORNING. 



A shaft of gold upon my upturned face 



As fleeting and as shy as any fawn; 



Sweet odors, stirring winds and forms of grace;' 



Now tell me, is this heaven or is it dawn? 



Richard Burton, 



