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The weatherman says
That it's spring today
Though light has not yet won
Her battle with the night
There's a mist on the hills
And frost on the willowherb
A fieldful of crows
Whispering nervously
The sound of a theatre
At the start of the show
Something sacred
about the silvery skyglow
Of a hidden sun
And a moorful of music
Of Curlew and Lark

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