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THE LAST LEAFDesolate on the naked boughIn the rust-strewn wood remainsOne poor forgotten last leaf now.One last forgotten bird complains.Desolate in my breast one lastRemaining love lingers to sing.But brawling Autumn's roaring blastDrowns that forlorn sweet jargoning.The leaf drops, now the bird is gone.Love dies, for Winter grips the scene.Come, little bird, and sing uponMy grave in Spring when trees are green!WESTERLY, No. 1 of 1967 33
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