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Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди)) Last Week in October The trees are undressing, and fling in many places – On the gray road, the roof, the window-sill – Their radiant robes and ribbons and yellow laces; A leaf each second so is flung at will, Here, there, another and another, still and still. A spider’s web has caught one while downcoming, That stays there dangling when the rest pass on; Like a suspended criminal hangs he, mumming In golden garb, while one yet green, high yon, Trembles, as fearing such a fate for himself anon. Thomas Hardy's other poems:
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