White Fog

by Sara Teasdale

　　

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Heaven-invading hills are drowned In wide moving waves of mist, Phlox before my door are wound In dripping wreaths of amethyst. Ten feet away the solid earth Changes into melting cloud, There is a hush of pain and mirth, No bird has heart to speak aloud. Here in a world without a sky, Without the ground, without the sea, The one unchanging thing is I, Myself remains to comfort me.

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