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 The lily's withered chalice falls
Around its rod of dusty gold,
And from the beech-trees on the wold
The last wood-pigeon coos and calls.
The gaudy leonine sunflower Hangs black and barren on its stalk, And down the windy garden walk The dead leaves scatter, - hour by hour.
Pale privet-petals white as milk Are blown into a snowy mass: The roses lie upon the grass Like little shreds of crimson silk.

by Oscar Wilde
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