leaves droop drearily on exposed branches tinged amber from the sun’s fierce fading, fire-red on the horizon at dusk of day, the autumnal equinox is upon us, crisp and cool, apple cider, cinnamon steeped, nips my tongue
Much as he left it when he went from us Here was the room again wherehe had been So long that something of him should be seen, Or felt-and so it was. Incredulous, I turned about, loath to be greeted thus, And there he was in his old chair, serene As ever, and as laconic as lean As when he lived, and as cadaverous. Calm as he was of old when we were young, He sat there gazing at the pallid flame Before him. ‘And how far will this go on?’ I thought. He felt the failure of my tongue, And smiled: ‘I was not here until you came; And I shall not be here when you are gone.’
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