Vaticinations
C
Clark Ashton Smith
0
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I heard the leaves of the willow whisper
As they fell at morn on the gusty mere:
'You shall he torn and blown as we are,
In a wind that bears the crumbling year.'
I heard the boulders murmur mutely
In the noontide sun on the windless hill:
'Sometime you shall be calm as we are
And as tranquil and as still.'
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