Thursday, October 13, 2011

Summer mourning

When the last rose of summer pricks my finger,
And the hot sun chills me to the bone,
When I can't hear the song for the singer,
And I can't tell my pillow from a stone,
I will walk alone by the black, muddy river,
And sing me a song of my own.




Yes, I'm one of the few who is sorry to see summer go. If only there were a black muddy river nearby...

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