It was said well that that autumn leaves
are redder than flowers in the Spring.
For, at the time of that early awakening,
nearly all begins, or appears so, anew,
as if from a clean and clear slate that means
not only (a sort of) death, but forgetting too
so that all those released from winter lassitude
may brim with surging oomph and dash and zeal,
a gift of youthful innocence—except for the tug
with the name desire that draws us to its aim
of which, deep down, it knows more
than it lets us see before lessons nay be learned.
Thus, whiter is that blush. But, in Autumn, when
the other red comes, they tried and already know.
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