In Memory of Miss Jennie Blanchard by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

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Across the sodden field we gaze, / To woodlands, painted gold and brown; / To hills that hide in purple haze, / And proudly wear the Autumn's crown. / Oh, lavish Autumn! fair, we know, / And yet we cannot deem her so.

The blossoms had their little day; / The grasses, and the green-hung trees. / They lived, grew old, and passed away. / And yet, not satisfied with these, / The cruel Autumn could not pass / Without this last fell stroke. Alas!

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