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Souls as dry as autumn leaves,
The color long since out.


The organ plays.
The leaves crackle and rustle a little;
Then sink down.


Old ladies with gray moss on their chins,
Old men with camphor and cotton packed around their heads,
Thin child spirits, sharp and shrill as whistles.


Gray old trees;
Gaunt old woods;
Souls as dry as leaves
After Autumn is past.