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Walter Savage Landor

Autumn

MILD is the parting year, and sweet
    The odour of the falling spray;
Life passes on more rudely fleet,
    And balmless is its closing day.

I wait its close, I court its gloom,
    But mourn that never must there fall
Or on my breast or on my tomb
    The tear that would have soothed it all.

 
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About the poet
Walter Savage Landor
 
By the same poet
The Maid's Lament
Rose Aylmer
Ianthe
Twenty Years hence
Verse
Proud Word you never spoke
Resignation
Mother, I cannot mind my Wheel
Remain!
Absence
Of Clementina
Ianthe's Question
On Catullus
Dirce
Alciphron and Leucippe
Years
Separation
Late Leaves
Finis
 
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