I Hear A Voice Low In The Sunset Woods by Frances Anne Kemble

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I hear a voice low in the sunset woods,
Listen, it says: ‘Decay, decay, decay.’
I hear it in the murmuring of the floods,
And the wind sighs it as it flies away.
Autumn is come, seest thou not in the skies
The stormy light of his fierce, lurid eyes?
Autumn is come, his brazen feet have trod,
Withering and scorching, o’er the mossy sod.
The fainting year sees her fresh flowery wreath
Shrivel in his hot grasp, his burning breath,
Dries the sweet water-springs that in the shade
Wandering along, delicious music made.
A flood of glory hangs upon the world,
Summer’s bright wings shining ere they are furled.

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