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Often hidden, often bright,
Clearest on an autumn night,
Sometimes covered with the shroud
Of some fleecy streak of cloud,
Yet, when passed, thou dost appear
All the night both bright and clear.
In and out thy starry doors
Fly the fairies of the sky,
For we see them opening, closing,
As each spirit passes by.
Thou descendest with the moon
Down the high empyrean hill:
Ah, but thy most precious boon
When thou holdest breathless still,
Lest the weaver maid might miss
Her herdboy lover's annual kiss.