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October weaves Rainbows of the forest leaves. Gentians fringed, like eyes of blue, Glimmer out of sleety dew. Meadow-green I sadly miss: Winds through withered sedges hiss. Oh, 'tis snowing, swing me fast, While December shivers past! Frosty-bearded Father Time, Stop your footfall on the rime! Hard you push, your hand is rough; You have swung me long enough. "Nay, no stopping," say you?
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