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Autumn

 MILD is the parting year, and sweet 
 The odour of the falling spray; 
Life passes on more rudely fleet, 
 And balmless is its closing day.
I wait its close, I court its gloom, But mourn that never must there fall Or on my breast or on my tomb The tear that would have soothed it all.

Poem by Walter Savage Landor
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