If I walk in Autumn’s even
While the dead leaves pass,
If I look on Spring’s soft heaven,–
Something is not there which was
Winter’s wondrous frost and snow,
Summer’s clouds, where are they now?
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If I walk in Autumn’s even
While the dead leaves pass,
If I look on Spring’s soft heaven,–
Something is not there which was
Winter’s wondrous frost and snow,
Summer’s clouds, where are they now?