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|A Dead Harvest|
|In Kensington Gardens|
Along the graceless grass of town|
They rake the rows of red and brown,
Dead leaves, unlike the rows of hay
Delicate, touched with gold and grey,
Raked long ago and far away.
A narrow silence in the park,|
Between the lights a narrow dark.
One street rolls on the north; and one,
Muffled, upon the south doth run;
Amid the mist the work is done.
A futile crop!for it the fire|
Smoulders, and, for a stack, a pyre.
So go the town’s lives on the breeze,
Even as the sheddings of the trees;
Bosom nor barn is filled with these.
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Lane Core Jr. (email@example.com)
Created April 8, 2001; not revised.