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The Ruin
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When the last colors of the day
Have from their burning ebbed away,
About that ruin, cold and lone,
The cricket shrills from stone to stone;
And scattering o'er its darkened green,
Bands of the fairies may be seen,
Chattering like grasshoppers, their feet
Dancing a thistledown dance round it:
While the great gold of the mild moon
Tinges their tiny acorn shoon.

(Walter de la Mare)

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Posted in alt discuss faery**

by Boadicea July 2000

(**a.d.faery is a WebTv users only news group.)



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