November

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Title:     November
Author: Sara Teasdale [More Titles by Teasdale]

The world is tired, the year is old,
The little leaves are glad to die,
The wind goes shivering with cold
Among the rushes dry.

Our love is dying like the grass,
And we who kissed grow coldly kind,
Half glad to see our poor love pass
Like leaves along the wind.

[The end]
Sara Teasdale's poem: November

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