Echo

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Posted by Rezwan in ,


The Falling Leaves by Margaret Postgate Cole

Today, as I rode by,
I saw the brown leaves dropping from their tree
In a still afternoon,
When no wind whirled them whistling to the sky,
But thickly, silently,
They fell, like snowflakes wiping out the noon;
And wandered slowly thence
For thinking of a gallant multitude
Which now all withering lay,
Slain by no wind of age or pestilence,
But in their beauty strewed
Like snowflakes falling on the Flemish clay.

This entry was posted on November 06, 2008 at Thursday, November 06, 2008 and is filed under , . You can follow any responses to this entry through the comments feed .

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