  Long Autumn rain; White mists which choke the vale, and blot the sides Of the bewildered hills; in all the plain No field agleam where the gold pageant was, And silent o’er a tangle of drenched grass The blackbird glides. In the heart,—fire, Fire and clear air and cries of water-springs, And large, pure winds; all April’s quick desire, All June’s possession; a most fearless Earth Drinking great ardours; and the rapturous birth Of wingÈd things. |
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