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WITHERED LEAVES.

Down from the lank elm trees The crisping wrinkled leavesAre fluttering in the breeze Round the Cathedral eaves.
To the dead heaps below With vainly eddying wingReluctantly they go, Like souls to life that cling.
But Autumn's morning sky In fathomless gulfs of blueSmiles freshly on the eye, With loving, hoping hue.
The season fitteth well This place of rest to tread,And bid the spirit dwell On the time-sever'd dead.
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