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When reeds are dead and a straw to thatch the marshes,
And feathered pampas-grass rides into the wind
Like ag├Ęd warriors westward, tragic, thinned
Of half their tribe, and over the flattened rushes,
Stripped of its secret, open, stark and bleak,
Blackens afar the half-forgotten creek--
Then leans on me the weight of the year, and crushes
My heart. I know that Beauty must ail and die,
And will be born again--but ah, to see
Beauty stiffened, staring up at the sky!
Oh, Autumn! Autumn!--What is the Spring to me?