Again the leaves come fluttering down,
Slowly, silently, one by one,—
Scarlet, and crimson, and gold, and brown,—
Willing to fall, for their work is done,
And once again comes the dreamy haze,
Draping the hills with its filmy blue,
And veiling the sun, whose tender rays,
With mellowed light come shimmering through.
Ellen P. Allerton
excerpt from Indian Summer
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