Сара Тисдейл (Sara Teasdale)

November

  The world is tired, the year is old,
   The fading leaves are glad to die,
  The wind goes shivering with cold
   Where the brown reeds are dry.

  Our love is dying like the grass,
   And we who kissed grow coldly kind,
  Half glad to see our old love pass
   Like leaves along the wind.

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