The day was lingering in the pale north-west, And night was hanging o'er my headó Night, where a myriad stars were spread; While down in the east, where the light was least, Seemed the home of the quiet dead. And, as I gazed on the field sublime, To watch the bright, pulsating stars, Adown the deep where the angels sleep Came drawn the golden chime Of those great spheres that sound the years For the horologe of time. Millenniums numberless they told, Millenniums a millionfold From the ancient hour of prime.
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