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"The Ruin", by Walter De La Mare
rittsy
When the colours 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 fairies may be seen,:: Clattering like grasshoppers, their feet:: Dancing a thistledown dance round it: :: While the great gold of the mild moon:: Tinges their tiny acorn shoon. :: :: ::