Sunday Morning

When the mist languishes down the pane in rivulets of tears, speckling the glass in glistening bubble chains;
and the pendulous trees nod and bow in random motion against roar of the wind ;the spume of cloud moves across the sky in an unfurled carpet
Of grey;
and the moorland ridge is seemingly pellucid and the world beyond the tops of trees has gone,in hyaline cloak;it seems discernible to stay awhile in bed.

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