At Forty-One
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At Forty-One
AT FORTY-ONE
The waters from the pool are vanishing;
A mellow sunlight steeps the window-panes,
And autumn winds ply many a pleasant fan.
A mellow sunlight steeps the window-panes,
And autumn winds ply many a pleasant fan.
O gold and green, half-ripe, the acacias glow,
While o’er the threshold of his summer falls
The shadow of a solitary man.
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