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The Poetical Works of George MacDonald

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Across the stubble glooms the wind;

High sails the lated crow;

The west with pallid green is lined;

Fog tracks the river's flow.

My heart is cold and sad; I moan,

Yet care not for my grief;

The summer fervours all are gone;

The roses are but leaf.

Old age is coming, frosty, hoar;

The snows of time will fall;

My jubilance, dream-like, no more

Returns for any call!

lapsing heart! thy feeble strain Sends up the blood so spare,

That my poor withering autumn brain

Sees autumn everywhere!

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