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The Poetical Works of George MacDonald

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'Tis late before the sun will rise,

And early he will go;

Gray fringes hang from the gray skies,

And wet the ground below.

Red fruit has followed golden corn;

The leaves are few and sere;

My thoughts are old as soon as born,

And chill with coming fear.

The winds lie sick; no softest breath

Floats through the branches bare;

silence as of coming death Is growing in the air.

But what must fade can bear to fade--

Was born to meet the ill:

Creep on, old Winter, deathly shade!

We sorrow, and are still.

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