A FOX IN THE MERAMEC VALLEY 



clouds and all is silence, shot through with 

 myrrh and spice of wind-swept woods. 



The noise dies out, and wood-birds call 

 From quiet, leafy coverts dim, 

 And acorns, from the oak-trees tall, 

 Drop, plummetlike, from topmost limb. 

 All now is hushed, sweet silence reigns, 

 And yet an echo seems to say, 

 Soft whispering through the fields and lanes, 

 Gone away, away, gone away. 



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