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SEPTEMBER HAZE
So while fresh buddings jewel grass and tree,And every purple stock that bursts the swatheOf sage-green sepal must believe itselfThe first to gladden a September world,The flowers of a hundred buried springsWatch wistfully, grey ghosts of pleasances,Blurring the outlines of the drowsing hills,As tears may blot those bright September greensIn aged eyes that go rememberingA golden summer when the heart was young.
