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The Poetical Works of George MacDonald

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And though the sun be not so warm,

His shining is not lost;

Both corn and hope, of heart and farm,

Lie hid from coming frost.

The sombre woods are richly sad,

Their leaves are red and gold:

Are thoughts in solemn splendour clad

Signs that we men grow old?

Strange odours haunt the doubtful brain

From fields and days gone by;

And mournful memories again

Are born, are loved, and die.

The mornings clear, the evenings cool

Foretell no wintry wars;

The day of dying leaves is full,

The night of glowing stars.

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