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The fog across the empty field
Causes weary wanderers' yield.
Just a blind alley: in open, afar,
No sign of lasting moon or star.
A mysterious wake, covering land,
Creeping along to wet the sand.
Leaving when the sun comes to East;
On honeydew it flocks to feast.
Silent and eerie--a stranger it seems--
It flies to hide the shadows' gleams.
A dark gray sheet, in the air it basks;
Why it comes no one must ask.
To haunt the thoughts of objects stray--
Then moist morning becomes day.
Now mist rising, like smoke from fire,
Ascends toward glowing, golden sire.
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