Night (The)
C
Clark Ashton Smith
0
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The fires of sunset die reluctantly
As goes the kingly Day to seek his rest,
And Night, the sable queen, comes sombrely,
In dusky robes, with stars upon her breast.
Mistress of peace is she, who quiet brings,
And mystic balm of healing in her train,
Who drops Sleep's magic feather from her wings
To soothe a tired world's weariness and pain.
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