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Orion is setting, setting into the west,
Luminous, low;
His tilted torches sink to their golden rest,
Splendid and slow,
Till they seem, like blossoms with Paradise beauty fraught
In the boughs of my budding chestnut tangled and caught.


Wind-flowers are rising, rising out of the earth,
Mystical, pale,
Filling dark woods with the light of their fragrant birth,
Beautiful, frail.
For never a star goes down into infinite space
But another is born with the wonder of God on its face.