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Rh So, in our passion's death, When knowledge whispereth With wise Unholy eyes,

And thy sweet flowered mouth Is grey with Autumn's drouth And love Dreams not thereof,

Our Day of Falling Leaves Calls back the Spring, deceives The sense With transience.

A hollow reed against his lips He played a soaring strain, That fled his dancing finger tips Light as a swallow wheels and dips Above the flowing grain.