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Wild is the music of autumnal winds the faded woods.
We lack but open eye and ear To find the Orient's marvels here; The still small voice in autumn's hush, Yon maple wood the burning bush.
The tints of autumn--a mighty flower garden, blossoming under the spell of the enchanter, Frost.
Autumn, in his leafless bowers, is waiting for the winter's snow.
Autumn's earliest frost had given To the woods below Hues of beauty, such as heaven Lendeth to its bow; And the soft breeze from the west Scarcely broke their dreamy rest.
When summer gathers up her robes of glory, and like a dream of beauty glides away.
Crown'd with the sickle and the wheaten sheaf, While Autumn, nodding o'er the yellow plain, Comes jovial on.
The pale descending year, yet pleasing still,. a gentler mood inspires; for now the leaf incessant rustles from the mournful grove, oft startling such as studious, walk below, and slowly circles through the waving air.
How are the veins of thee, Autumn, laden. Umbered juices, And pulped oozes Pappy out of the cherry-bruises, Froth the veins of thee, wild, wild maiden. With hair that musters In globed clusters, In trumbling clusters, like swarthy grapes, Round thy brow and thine ears o'ershaden; With the burning darkness of eyes like pansies, Like velvet pansies Where through escapes The splendid might of thy conflagrate fancies; With robe gold-tawny not hiding the shapes Of the feet whereunto it falleth down, Thy naked feet unsandalled; With robe gold-tawny that does not veil Feet where the red Is meshed in the brown, Like a rubied sun in a Venice-sail.
Autumn has come; Storming now heaventh the deep sea with foam, Yet would I gratefully lie there, Willingly die there.
Cold autumn, wan with wrath of wind and rain, Saw pass a soul sweet as the sovereign tune That death smote silent when he smote again.

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