Twas Autumn's doing.
Cold wind's, not words' gall.
Down bee's rose circuit, spured on
This courting route's fall.
A tremulous leaf
Let go of, your hand.
Midst perfume-petalled fragments.
Hours' balmy riband.
Moon's, the sole jaunting
For poise that held out.
Evening primrose, who'd mirrored
That truth spun about!
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