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Tuesday, October 26, 2021

Poem: “The Last Week in October” by Thomas Hardy

The trees are undressing, and fling in many places – 
 On the gray road, the roof, the window sill – 
 Their radiant robes and ribbons and yellow laces; 
A leaf each second so is flung at will, 
Here, there, another and another, still and still. 

A spider’s web has caught one while downcoming. 
That stays there dangling when the rest pass on; 
Like a suspended criminal hangs he, mumming 
In golden garb, while one yet green, high yon, 
Trembles, as fearing such a fate for himself anon.

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