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Autumn Song

With long sobs
the violin-throbs
of autumn wound
my heart with languorous
and montonous
sound.
Choking and pale When i mind the tale the hours keep, my memory strays down other days and I weep; and I let me go where ill winds blow now here, now there, harried and sped, even as a dead leaf, anywhere.

Poem by Paul Verlaine
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