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With what a glory comes and goes the year!
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The buds of spring, those beautiful harbingers
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Of sunny skies and cloudless times, enjoy
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Life's newness, and earth's garniture spread out;
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And when the silver habit of the clouds
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Comes down upon the autumn sun, and with
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A sober gladness the old year takes up
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His bright inheritance of golden fruits,
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A pomp and pageant fill the splendid scene.
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There is a beautiful spirit breathing now
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Its mellow richness on the clustered trees,
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And, from a beaker full of richest dyes,
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Pouring new glory on the autumn woods,
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And dipping in warm light the pillared clouds.
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Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird,
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Lifts up her purple wing, and in the vales
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The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer,
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Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life
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Within the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned,
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And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved,
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Where Autumn, like a faint old man, sits down
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By the wayside a-weary. Through the trees
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The golden robin moves. The purple finch,
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That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds,
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A winter bird, comes with its plaintive whistle,
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And pecks by the witch-hazel, whilst aloud
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From cottage roofs the warbling blue-bird sings,
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And merrily, with oft-repeated stroke,
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Sounds from the threshing-floor the busy flail.
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O what a glory doth this world put on
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For him who, with a fervent heart, goes forth
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Under the bright and glorious sky, and looks
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On duties well performed, and days well spent!
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For him the wind, ay, and the yellow leaves,
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Shall have a voice, and give him eloquent teachings.
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He shall so hear the solemn hymn that Death
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Has lifted up for all, that he shall go
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To his long resting-place without a tear.
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