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The leaves are falling; so am I;
The few late flowers have moisture in the eye;
     So have I too.
Scarcely on any bough is heard
Joyous, or even unjoyous, bird
     The whole wood through.
 
Winter may come: he brings but nigher
His circle (yearly narrowing) to the fire
     Where old friends meet.
Let him; now heaven is overcast,
And spring and summer both are past,
     And all things sweet.

Other works by Walter Savage Landor...



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