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Autumn |
 Softly in her scarlet slippers... Autumn walks the land, Brushing back her burnished tresses, With a copper hand. Standing on a windy hillside, where she may behold All the greatness and the grandeur, Of September's gold. Past a lake of polished azure, Autumn makes her way, Through the amber-colored hours, Of a quiet day. And what music, as the sound Of scarlet slippers touch the ground. by Grace E. Easley |
