Leaves from the elm trees flying—
Summer to autumn flown—
Out on the lawn is lying
Mulberry's golden gown.

Never a bird is singing,
Never a plant has bloom,
Only the fantails winging
White on the windy gloom.

We can no more remember
Perfume of rose or hay;
Far from this dark November
Beauty has passed away.

Not till the Spring recapture
Joy as it flits along,
Shall we regain the rapture
Either of scent or song!
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