Moon-Dawn
C
Clark Ashton Smith
0
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The hills, a-throng with swarthy pine,
Press up the pale and hollow sky,
And the squat cypresses on high
Reach from the lit horizon-line
They reach, they reach, with gnarlèd hands—
Malignant hags, obscene and dark—
While the red moon, a demons' ark,
Is borne along the mystic lands.
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