Crisp autumn mornings give me something of my childhood;
The chill in the air, the sun bright-shining,
Diamond-strung cobwebs on garden growth,
And dew-sparkling grass, touch some hidden cord
Which reaches back through time
To that distant happiness. They rouse the wish
To trample rustling leaves deeply lying in their
Red-gold masses under glorious trees,
Trees ripe for climbing in those far off days
Before the turmoil of newly attained adulthood
Swept away the child's world
Into the fine-wrought halls of memory.
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