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First Collection. Fall. Meäple Leaves be Yollow Come, let’s stroll down so vur’s the poun’, Avore the sparklèn zun is down: The zummer’s gone, an’ days so feäir As theäse be now a-gettèn reäre. The night, wi’ mwore than daylight’s sheäre O’ wat’ry sky, do wet wi’ dew The ee-grass up above woone’s shoe, An’ meäple leaves be yollow. The last hot doust, above the road, An’ vu’st dead leaves ha’ been a-blow’d By plaÿsome win’s where spring did spread The blossoms that the zummer shed; An’ near blue sloos an’ conkers red The evenèn zun, a zettèn soon, Do leäve a-quiv’rèn to the moon, The meäple leaves so yollow. Zoo come along, an’ let’s injaÿ The last fine weather while do staÿ; While thou canst hang, wi’ ribbons slack, Thy bonnet down upon thy back, Avore the winter, cwold an’ black, Do kill thy flowers, an’ avore Thy bird-cage is a-took in door, Though meäple leaves be yollow. William Barnes's other poems:
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