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There is a grey thing that lives in the tree-tops
None know the horror of its sight
Save those who meet death in the wilderness
But one is enabled to see
To see the branches move at its passing
To hear at times the wail of black laughter
And to come often upon mystic places
Places where the thing has just been.
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S T E P H E N C R A N E
Complete poems
THE LIBRARY OF AMERICA 2011
