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Friday, September 24, 2021

Poem: “September,” Mary Coleridge

Now every day the bracken browner grows, 
    Even the purple stars 
    Of clematis, 
t    hat shone about the bars, 
Grow browner; and the little autumn rose 
    Dons, for her rosy gown, 
    Sad weeds of brown. 

Now falls the eve, and ere the morning sun, 
    Many a flower her sweet life will have lost, 
    Slain by the bitter frost, 
Who slays the butterflies also, one by one, 
    The tiny beasts 
    That go about their business and their feasts.

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