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The spot where he paused was a little nook, Like a secret page in nature's book,— Around were steeps where the wild vine Hung, wreathed in many a serpentine, Wearing each the colour'd sign Of the autumn's pale decline. Like a lake in the midst was spread A grassy sweep of softest green, Smooth, flower-dropt, as no human tread Upon its growth had ever been. Limes rose around, but lost each leaf, Like hopes luxuriant but brief; And by their side the sycamore Grew prouder of its scarlet store: The air was of that cold clear light That heralds in an autumn night,—