He sees more than I,

But he cannot hear

What I hear.

[Pg 23]

[Pg 23]

 September’s End

In the ash tree

There is a soft rustling,

Lingering, like

A silken whisper,

Quite different

Than sound the other trees;

As if the bronzy leaves

Had much to say

Before they part,

And were loath

To bid farewell.

[Pg 24]

[Pg 24]

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