That What Is Gone
Nothing is more wistful than
A shadowy gloaming
With fading lights
Withdrawn from the morning
The Sky spread out
To make a shroud
Out of every sober and
Sorrowful cloud
What feelings you make
Of the melancholy moan
From the fading geese
So gloomy to the bone
The wilting soul
Is of such depression made
Every grim tree is now
Without a shade
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