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 * AUTUMN **
 * by Christopher Brennan **

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 * Autumn: the year breathes dully towards its death, **
 * beside its dying sacrificial fire; **
 * the dim world's middle-age of vain desire **
 * is strangely troubled, waiting for the breath **
 * that speaks the winter's welcome malison **
 * to fix it in the unremembering sleep: **
 * the silent woods brood o'er an anxious deep, **
 * and in the faded sorrow of the sun, **
 * I see my dreams' dead colours, one by one, **
 * forth-conjur'd from their smouldering palaces, **
 * fade slowly with the sigh of the passing year. **
 * They wander not nor wring their hands nor weep, **
 * discrown'd belated dreams! but in the drear **
 * and lingering world we sit among the trees **
 * and bow our heads as they, with frozen mouth, **
 * looking, in ashen reverie, towards the clear **
 * sad splendour of the winter of the far south. **