The Melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year,
Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sear.
Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead;
They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit’s tread.
The robin and the wren...
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I Will not have the mad Clytie, |
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How many Flowers fail in Wood — |
I tend my flowers for thee — |
When the low heavy sky weighs like a lid |
In those old times wherein Theology |
To pay his ransom man must toil |