Spent autumn wanes; the leaf
Forsakes the vine, as from her coronal
The gems might fall,
Forgot by some mad empress in her grief.
Now, from the sycamores,
A ruinous and crumpled bronze is cast;
Grown sere at last,
The reeds lie broken on the river-shores.
Now, from the outland peaks,
The ghostly snows crawl downward on the blue;
Gone forth anew,
For huger
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