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Coming from the cold north, forming a vee,
Beating their wings austerely;
South to a pleasant and balmier clime,
Sounding their requiem.
The dandelions' and the thistles' down,
Long ago buried in the fallow ground;
The last of the mournful autumn winds sigh,
When the geese fly by.
Drumming to the heart's beat, drumming "defeat",
Sounding taps for the fall's retreat.
Ashes in the fireplace flicker to a flame,
Sparked by the passing game.
The sky turns gray and the grasses fade,
The frost stays white in the morning shade.
The last leaves of summer turn brown and die,
When the geese fly by.
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