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[353]

The eve of election.

from gold to gray
     Our mild sweet day
Of Indian Summer fades too soon;
     But tenderly
Above the sea
     Hangs, white and calm, the hunter's moon.

In its pale fire,
     The village spire
Shows like the zodiac's spectral lance;
     The painted walls
Whereon it falls
     Transfigured stand in marble trance!

O'er fallen leaves
     The west-wind grieves,
Yet comes a seed-time round again;
     And morn shall see
The State sown free
     With baleful tares or healthful grain.

Along the street
     The shadows meet
Of Destiny, whose hands conceal
     The moulds of fate
That shape the State,
     And make or mar the common weal.

Around I see
     The powers that be;

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