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The night is coming.

The moonlight strikes
on evening's anvil.

The night is coming.

A giant tree clothes itself
in the leaves of cantos.

The night is coming.

If you came to see me,
on the path of storm-winds...

The night is coming. would find me crying,
under high, black poplars.
Ay, girl with the dark hair!
Under high, black poplars.
A *remanso* is a still pool in running water, the liquid calm that is not swept on by the flow.
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