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Leaves of the Asp shudder,
never still,
Like water rushing, swirling, sounds a thrill.
All the world is waiting like someone standing on a hill,
Winds turning, twisting, only suggesting a chill.
There is a hesitation in the span of things,
We are waiting to see what another month brings.
We know, of course we do,
Winter is next, how true.
Let us wrap our self, wear and belong,
That blanket of Indian summer song. |
