  The lower'd skies are grey; the trees are bare. A week ago they gleam'd in splendid rows Of gold and crimson; now in gaunt despair They stand like ghosts above new-fallen snows. The world seems even greyer than the skies. 'Twas yesterday the homeward-honking geese Fled as from death. They know too well what lies Behind this sinister, foreboding peace! |
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