LATE LEAVESBy Walter Savage LandorTHE leaves are falling; so am I;The few late flowers have moisture in the eye;So have I too.

Scarcely on any bough is heardJoyous, or even unjoyous, birdThe whole wood through.

Winter may come: he brings but nigherHis circle (yearly narrowing) to the fireWhere old friends meet.

Let him; now heaven is overcast,And spring and summer both are past,And all things sweet.

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