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Another year dead, and the harvest moon; |
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Leaves burning is the peasant's legacy. |
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Knelling, as the cheek of Summer is kiss'd-- |
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Shivering of the elm, she is entomb'd. |
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The hay wain creaks through the countryside |
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As poet Autumn's fires scorch all this world. |
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They are entranced by the turning mill wheel, |
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Clear and cutting with Proserpine's kiss. |
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Bless the sun, decked in gorgeous array-- |
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Frost, and the dignity of flameless light, |
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The hermit's cottage, fashioned rough of stone-- |
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Smoke rolling slow behind the orchard's bloom. |
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Like a cairn, the stones are aligned in silence; |
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Arrayed by a bloodless hand, out through veils. |
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Time is easily torn while pitchforks twist, |
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Twist as easily through her golden hair. |
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Seasons that kill years... |
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Death that mangles hearts... |
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Loves that lose their shine... |
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Tombs that are forgot... |
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Darkness awaits behind the suffering day. |
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Men that waste lives in search of Heaven. |
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Stones are sobbing in a vernal field. |
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Thoughts of spring and cascades before you die. |