  T ake my tidings! Stags contend; Snows descend— Summer's end! A chill wind raging; The sun low keeping, Swift to set O'er seas high sweeping. Dull red the fern; Shapes are shadows: Wild geese mourn O'er misty meadows. Keen cold limes Each weaker wing. Icy times— Such I sing! Take my tidings! Alfred Perceval Graves. |
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