Faith

When brightly blazed the evening's crimson ray
and finest gold the cypress seemed, so fair,
a mother to her little child did say:
A whole great garden is like this up there.
The infant sleeps and dreams of boughs of gold,
trees he dreams golden and the forest gold;
meanwhile the cypress, in the black of night,
sways with the wind, and weeps at its fierce might.
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Giovanni Pascoli
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