The autumn tints! ah! yes, I know—
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The glories of the afterglow!
But who would give one day of spring
For this fantastic motley thing?
This tapestry is woven fair
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With yellow leaves and leaves blood-red—
So on an Eastern sepulchre
The gaudy patterned rugs are spread;
This painted woodland—be it said—
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Bannered and blazoned with decay,
Is like a minster, where the dead
Lie laurelled, waiting Judgment Day,
In scutcheoned vault and sculptured urn,
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With withered garlands dryly decked;
In vain some random glories burn,
Where all is woe-begone and wrecked.
'Tis but a waving arras screen,
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Moved by the sad autumnal wind,
Hiding, like some theatric scene,
The final change that lurks behind.
'Tis but a vaunt of doomèd things:
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The golden-rod all vainly blows,
And, purple as the pall of kings,
The aster vainly apes the rose.
So spake I, dreary as the rain,
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Sobbing against the window pane,
Sad as the wind that at my door
Went crying "Never—Nevermore."