  Summer is fled, and the skies are weeping For withered blossom and faded scent, And over the face of the forest is creeping A flush of fever with pale fear blent, And even the brows of the mountains borrow From the gray cloud-fleeces a scarf of sorrow. Summer is fled, and the fleeting swallows Gather in grief on his path to pursue, But not as the loss of one that follows, Follows to find, is the loss that I rue; For cold is the north, and from true friends parted, Few can I find not colder-hearted. |
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