It flits like wind:
the many plated fall
that haunts the hollow echoes
of the trees.
It sits in gloom,
the ever-darkened hall
of piney bowers
bending in the breeze.
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And far away,
approaching on the air,
the mountain smoke-streams:
hard, and sharp as spite.
Severest winter—
soon to come and tear
aside the warmful
day and bring us night.
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