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When reeds are dead and a straw to thatch the marshes, And feathered pampas-grass rides into the wind Like agéd warriors westward, tragic, thinned Of half their tribe; and over the flattened rushes, Stripped of its secret, open, stark and bleak, Blackens afar the half-forgotten creek,— Then leans on me the weight of the year, and crushes My heart. I know that Beauty must ail and die, And will be born again,—but ah, to see Beauty stiffened, staring up at the sky! Oh, Autumn! Autumn!—What is the Spring to me? |