Poem to Autumn

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Autumn Movement by Carl Sandburg 

I CRIED over beautiful things knowing no beautiful thing lasts.

The field of cornflower yellow is a scarf at the neck of the copper sunburned woman, the mother of 
the year, the taker of seeds.

The northwest wind comes and the yellow is torn full of holes, new beautiful things come in the first 
spit of snow on the northwest wind, and the old things go, not one lasts.

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