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All the sweet summer azure is not fled--
What hath the woodland, then, to do with grief?
The apparition of a yellow leaf,
The half-suspected russet overhead--
Of this it dreams, and is disquieted.
Snowdrops and other dainty things as brief,
Whereof the young anemones were chief,
The tremulous anemones are dead.
Long since the snowdrops have been fain to die;
Long since the anemones have pass'd away:
Some colour'd leaves discolour every morn--
Touch'd by the thought of which cronology
The trees have something that they long to say,
Inaudible, multitudinous, forlorn.