Autumn at seventy-eight
21 October 2012
The year comes to me as to an old friend,
without hurry, with a basket.
Here is a quince, here is a first frost,
here is a morning with nothing in it.
I take them all and say thank you.
A man of seventy-eight has room.
without hurry, with a basket.
Here is a quince, here is a first frost,
here is a morning with nothing in it.
I take them all and say thank you.
A man of seventy-eight has room.
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