In a red and golden world whose sudden chill
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Is packaged in brittle corn stalks
And icy ferns on windows,
I wander over hills whose tall grass
Is hard and thin enough
That it seems it must shatter.
My walking stick is still,
As still as the frosted branches of the trees
Of Winter, whose tang is in the air.
The cold wind blows over the grass,
Cruelly caressing my face
And toying with my hat.
But still the red and golden leaves hang tough,
Clinging feebly to the tips of their branches.
These are the last leaves of Autumn.
Some things never change... some things do.