'Now Autumn's fire burns slowly along the woods,
And day by day the dead leaves fall and melt.
And night by night the monitory blast
Wails in the key-hole, telling how it pass'd
O'er empty fields or unpland solitudes
Or grim, wide wave; and now the power is felt
Of meloncholy, tenderer in its moods,
Than any joy indulgent summer dealt.'
--William Allingham
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