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Wildly the owls are flitting, Hark to the pillars splitting Of palaces verdant ever, The branches quiver and sever, The mighty stems are creaking, The poor roots breaking and shrieking, In wild mixt ruin down dashing, O’er one another they’re crashing; Whilst ’midst the rocks so hoary Whirlwinds hurry and worry. Hear’st not, sister—’ ‘Hark!’ said Belle, ‘hark!’
‘Hear’st not, sister, a chorus Of voices—?’ ‘No,’ said Belle, ‘but I hear a voice.’ I listened attentively, but I could hear nothing but the loud clashing of branches, the pattering of rain, and the muttered growl of thunder.
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