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Poem by Mathilde Blind
The year is on the wing, my love, With tearful days and nights; The clouds are on the wing above With gathering swallow-flights. The year is on the wing, my sweet, And in the ghostly race, With patter of unnumbered feet, The dead leaves fly apace. The year is on the wing, and shakes The last rose from its tree; And I, whose heart in parting breaks, Must bid adieu to thee.
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