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Normale Version: NOVEMBER.
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How the winds moan through the wide branches, where
Decaying leaves like faded hopes abound,
Not as they soon will be, denuded — bare,
But resembling those wither'd thoughts are found,

While the once fairest lie in dust around !
No marvel is it that the Seasons change,
Emblematics deem'd of all life has crown'd —
Rather if th' analogy scap'd the range

Of thought, would it have shewn an aspect strange ;
But still the promise of reviving spring
Dishevelling forbids but to derange,
Loveliness her return will odours fling.
Of what typical this ? How then with those
Having no hope now, none for th' earthly close ?