I that loved Spring am Autumn's lover now,
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Impatient for the passing of the rose,
And glad, I scarce know why, that Summer goes,
With all her noisy splendours—ah! but thou,
Grey-eyed September, thee do I avow
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My mistress, till the last effacing snows—
Thou passion that hast learned a queen's repose,
I bring thee Youth grown Wisdom, Time knows how.
For in thine heart, as in thy haunted eyes,
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Memory and youth in one enchantment blend,
And, still more wonderful than thou art wise,
Though fair as April—how much more a friend!
Not for the lips of an unlearnèd boy
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Is mingled thy strange cup of fearful joy.