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How quiet is the midnight, love,
How warm the winds where raven fly,
Where all the changing moonlight, love,
Pales in your dying eye.
How loud your heart is calling, love,
How cold the wind upon your breast.
How hectic are the rivers, love,
Drawn through your dying wrists.
And love, what heat your frail skin hides,
As pure as salt, as sweet as death,
And in the night the red moon rides
The foxfire of your breath.