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This northern summer of our own,

On winters of the south a skit,

Glimmers and dies. This is well known,

Though we will not acknowledge it.

Already Autumn chilled the sky,

The tiny sun shone less on high

And shorter had the days become.

The forests in mysterious gloom

Were stripped with melancholy sound,

Upon the earth a mist did lie

And many a caravan on high

Of clamorous geese flew southward bound.

A weary season was at hand⁠—

November at the gate did stand.