literature

Late in the year

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Literature Text

November crept into my bones;
The year moving into its old age
As the trees burned,
Their dancing-flame-leaves scattering into the winds,
The promises of thick frost and darkened skies at dawn
Dusk once more falling far to early.
The veiled moon pale and grown fat,
Clouds obscuring the stars to wish on.
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ShadowedAcolyte's avatar
I love autumn poems--they are always either very bright or very dark, like an autumn day.