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| The silver moon rises High and wide and round Above the crested heads of my mountains She casts her loving eyes Carelessly Across the twinkling stars Irrelevant to her She watches her mountains They matter to her The generations of tall, straight trees As old as they are proud The wild and cunning wolves That howl homage to her light And all the young, eager lovers Who come to pass the warm, soft night Beneath her silver light. |
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| Hail the Moon |
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