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SIGHING
the valleys along are the blustering winds,
Shaking the high-towering pines and the mighty-limbed
oaks,
Moaning through copses where never the sunlight an opening
finds,
Ruffling the rough-rushing torrents and scattering the
spray
Of the leaf-laden air by the cliffs and the creeks that
lie hid
'Neath the brown-yellow branches and shrivelling leaves
in the darkling day.
White
mists are wreathing the base of the mountain, and high
In the distance the daylight fast waning shows faintly
and grey
Where the clouds with their sombre complexity cumber
the lowering sky,
And curl round the crest of the wind-fetterd mountain
and hide
In their grey, gloomy folds, that loom heavy with threatening
storms,
All the thickets and forests that cover the rocks on
its echoing side.
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