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The leaves of Summer never were so fair
As now, by dying season’s light they’re kissed,
September’s melancholy, golden mist
Descends like dreams so richly everywhere,
That I forget that I, like they, must die.
And drinking in, like mellow wine, the day,
Its glorious moment ripe, will fade away
Upon the morrow, and with them will lie
In brown and withered peace …
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