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Ah! what a beauty in September's close! My sorrow's eased. April's joy dazzled it, But autumn wins it with her dying calm.

There comes the famous arm-chair, where he sits,

Dear faithful friend!

It is the parlour's best!

Thanks, sister.

The hour strikes. —My silks?—Why, now, the hour's struck! How strange To be behind his time, at last, to-day! Perhaps the portress—where's my thimble?—Here!

—Is preaching to him.

Yes, she must be preaching! Surely he must come soon!—Ah! a dead leaf!—

Nothing, besides, could—scissors?—In my bag!

—Could hinder him…