  I know her not by fallen leaves Or resting heaps of hay; Or by the sheathing mists of mauve That soothe the fiery day. I know her not by plumping nuts, By redded hips and haws, Or by the silence hanging sad Under the wind's sere pause. But by her sighs I know her well— They are like Sorrow's breath; And by this longing, strangely still, For something after death. |
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