Now is the winter of my discontent To be reformed, transfigured into spring? I cannot seem to hold to anything That by this sudden blossom is not rent. I leave a love behind, unfathomed still; I have a hope before me, waiting yet; And trapped so, where no boundaries are set, I find a faith, an unexpected will. The summer is impending in the autumn; The promise is penumbred by the wilt; Before new petals grow, leaves must be spilt On forest floors, at garden’s edge and bottom. . . Fall, leaves, as my heart, for leave I must, And autumn presses on, and we are dust.
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