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A misty, drizzle
Blown from the south
Powers me up my autumn hill
Leaves spiral
From a hushing sycamore
Lifting my spirits
With amber twirling
There's a Raven, high
Over the twisting mills
Singing his low, sad song
And the green of the summer
Is fading to dun
And I welcome the joy
of the cheerful rowan
Dressed in red berries
And waving,
And we say our farewells
To the sun.

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