Eidolons by Madison Cawein

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/ The white moth-mullein brushed its slim / Cool, faery flowers against his knee; / In places where the way lay dim / The branches, arching suddenly, / Made tomblike mystery for him.

/ The wild-rose and the elder, drenched / With rain, made pale a misty place, -- / From which, as from a ghost, he blenched; / He walking with averted face, / And lips in desolation clenched.

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