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Approaching coldness
The most beautiful birds
have flown
And the moor sings darkly
With almost silence
The heather has turned to bronze
And thistles sag
in droopy black towers
No feast for the goldfinches here
They've gone to the teasels
Down by the mill
And the hares have danced
Over the mountain
And left me to the crows
And the whispering pipits
Up in the mist on the hill.

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