walk the autumn long;
the last flower in whose hair,
they lips are cold with songs
for which is
first to wither, to pass?
shallowness of sunlight
falls, and cruelly,
across the grass
Comes the
moon.
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walk the autumn long;
the last flower in whose hair,
they lips are cold with songs
for which is
first to wither, to pass?
shallowness of sunlight
falls, and cruelly,
across the grass
Comes the
moon