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Canticle

Canticle by John F. Deane (b.1943) ' Sometimes when you walk down to the red gate hearing the scrape-music of your shoes across gravel, a yellow moon will lift over the hill; you swing the gate shut and lean on the topmost bar as if something has been accomplished in the world; a night wind mistles through the poplar leaves and all the noise of the universe stills to an oboe hum, the given note of a perfect music; there is a vast sky wholly dedicated to the stars and you know, with certainty, that all the dead are out, up there, in one holiday flotilla, and that they celebrate the fact of a red gate and a yellow moon that tunes their instruments with you to the symphony.'

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