The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year,
Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere.
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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Even at their fairest still I love the less |
In shining groups, each stem a pearly ray, |
Of old, a man who died Grown wiser, we, to-day, |
There is a Reaper, whose name is Death, “Shall I have naught that is fair?” saith he; |
Prune thou thy words; the thoughts control But he who lets his feelings run |
Spake full well, in language quaint and olden, Stars they are, wherein we read our history, |
God might have bade the earth bring forth |
Day-stars! that ope your frownless eyes to twinkle Ye matin worshippers! who bending lowly |
When hath wind or rain |