"How cold it is! Even the lights are cold;
They have put shawls of fog around them, see!
What if the air should grow so dimly white;
That we would lose our way along the paths;
Made new by walls of moving mist receding;
The more we follow. . . . What a silver night!
That was our bench the time you said to me;
The long new poem -- but how different now;
How eerie with the curtain of the fog;
Making it strange to all the friendly trees!"
- Sara Teasdale, A November Night
Cheers!
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