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Fall Sonnet
So high attains this conflagration's sparks,
At last its work wrought through branch and limb,
A glory crowning for alighting larks
Who sing from which its solitary hymn.
I found a god this month with autumn's turn.
Its air and sunlight binds us soul to soul.
A chill of frost fills morning as an urn:
An ash of drops of vapor dark as coal.
With supplication pass I by this sight.
Try as I might I can't pin fall to sky.
How soon signs fail to mark in fading light --
With hushing brights on cycling toward a sigh.
What starts so soft, a music spun with gold,
It can't last long; it can't withstand such cold.
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