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Thomas VAughan (1622-1666), not so well known for poetry as his brother Henry, wrote my favourite short poem:
Now had the night spent her black stage, and all
Her beautheous, twinkling flames grew sick and pale,
Her scene of shades and silence fled; and day
Dressed the young east in roses, where each ray
Falling on sables, made the sun and night
Kiss in a chequer of mixed clouds and light.
Dawn, by Thomas Vaughan.
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