"...Now hath the summer reached her golden close,
And, lost amid her corn-fields, bright of soul,
Scarcely perceives her divine repose
How near, how swift, the inevitable goal:
Still, still, she smiles, though from her careless feet
The bounty and the fruitful strength are gone,
And through the soft long wondering days goes on
The silent sere decadence sad and sweet..."
-Archibald Lampman, September
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