With darker and more mutable concerns fall seems to be driving down the mountains in from the sea. Off tree tops dismal airs collapse with summers last fury and force, calling down scorn sewn with embers dying might. Low in little time mortal minds will be held by autumns chores and delights. It's close to morrow and closer still to night, all wilds pang calling. Whisper Cradles or envy line down civilized old Apian with mired greed I've tried to wash white.
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