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White Fog

by Sara Teasdale
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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